


little t&a

by Ruriruri



Category: KISS (US Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breast Fucking, Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Sexswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 86,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23446954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriruri/pseuds/Ruriruri
Summary: Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic.Complete.
Relationships: Gene Simmons/Paul Stanley
Comments: 92
Kudos: 55





	1. sittin', thinkin', sinkin', drinkin'

Gene really didn’t think too much of it at first when Paul vanished just after the tour. He didn’t take it personally, the way Peter did, and he didn’t get too quizzical about it like Ace did. The whole band was burnt-out on each other. The days where they had to share hotel rooms were gone, and the days where they wanted to share vacations were gone, too. Gene couldn’t pinpoint when it had gotten like that, and it made him a little regretful, sure, but it was just another inevitability. The Beatles had made it ten years before imploding, all those hurt egos just smushing together and screwing everything up. KISS had four years under its belt now, and already he could feel things faltering.

So maybe Paul was trying to ease all that via his disappearing act. Spend his tour break at home, probably with a bevy of girls lining up at his front porch, and come back refreshed and ready for another nine-month stretch with only a wall between him and his bandmates, assuming Ace and Peter didn’t tear a hole in it on a drunken whim. It made sense. The first time Paul didn’t return his phone call (the tinny sound of his $400 answering machine the only response), Gene wasn’t concerned. The second time, Gene assumed Paul had gone to a disco, or was spending the night at some chick’s house. The third time, Gene immediately called up Bill, who said he hadn’t heard from Paul, either.

That was cause for concern. Paul could, and did, blow off anybody but their manager. Still, Gene figured he’d give it one more day, and one more lay, before he started to investigate.

That was the plan, until he got his mail late one morning. There was always a fat stack of it. The actual sackfuls of fan mail would end up at some office, where a poor secretary was stuck stuffing envelopes with their pictures and a canned response. Sometimes a real sleuth would find his address, and he’d open those out of sheer novelty, when he had the chance, only to be disappointed when the writer turned out to be a twelve-year-old who’d spent his paper route money on several books of stamps, and mailed the same letter out to every Gene Simmons in the greater New York phone book. Every so often he’d get the good stuff, like a saucy letter from a college girl, with photos and pubic hair taped inside. “See you next time in Sacramento.” He never wrote them back, but he’d put the photos in a separate album from his conquests. Almost a hope chest of photos, there.

Gene thumbed through the newsletters and errant bills so quickly he nearly missed it. A glossy postcard, with Buckingham Palace on the front. It couldn’t have been a piece of fan mail, but he didn’t know anyone who’d bother writing him, either. He flipped it over out of curiosity. Weird.

He recognized the scratchy longhand before he got to the signature. Not that it took long. Thee address was almost lengthier than the postcard message.

“Gene—Do you know anything about curses? Write me back soon. Thanks, Paul.”

\--

He called up Peter about it that afternoon, still baffled. He didn’t really think Peter would have any insight on it—Paul and Peter hadn’t been as close as they used to be, though that went for everyone—but he surprised him.

“I haven’t heard from him. I figured you had.” Peter was chewing gum as he spoke. Gene could hear the smacks through the receiver. “Why the fuck would he send you a postcard? You live closer to him than I do.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Talking about curses…” Peter trailed. “Shit, I went over there last week. Didn’t call him up first, just thought I’d go over like I used to. I banged on the door and some chick came out and screamed at me to go away. I told her who I was and she just stared at me.”

“Paul doesn’t pick girls for brains.”

“It was kinda weird, though. Picky bastard usually gets blondes.”

“What, was she a brunette?”

“Yeah, real dark, curly hair—you don’t think he’s shacked up with her, do you? Some New Age type, turning him on to something funny? ’Cause he doesn’t usually want ’em sticking around, either, and I stopped by after lunch…”

Evidently, Peter paid more attention to Paul’s habits with girls than Gene ever had.

“I don’t know. Was she cute?”

“Yeah. She had nice tits.”

Of course she did. Gene rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

“I’m gonna look into this. I’ll let you know if I can’t get in touch with him.”

“Sure.” There was a slight hesitation. “Hey, thanks for calling me. I thought he was pissed at me or some shit. But I guess he’s pissed at everybody.”

Gene privately feared it was worse than that. If Paul had gotten a girlfriend, one serious enough he was ignoring everyone and everything else, even the looming tour, for her sake… well, that didn’t make sense, not unless she’d conned him into something. There were still plenty of cults and communes all over the place, the leftover remnants of disillusioned hippies. They’d join fringe churches or create their own religions and live in tents on the side of the road. He didn’t think Paul would have fallen into something like that, unless the girl had spruced it up with a bunch of psychobabble and talk therapy. Paul dug astrology and self-help, but it wasn’t something he’d trade his lifestyle for. Was it?

“I’ll find out. I’ll see you, Pete.”

He hung up, then dialed his chauffeur. An hour or so later, he was pulling up to Paul’s.

\--

He told the chauffeur not to wait on him. If Paul was at his house, he’d make him drive him back. It turned out they weren’t Paul’s only visitors. Ahead of them, walking up the driveway, was a kid carrying two grocery bags, his bicycle parked in the grass.

Gene didn’t normally have an issue making his presence known. But he held back, curious. He wanted to see who would open the door—that supposed live-in girlfriend, some other chick, or Paul himself. As the chauffeur drove away, he hung back a bit, tucking himself behind a tree at the edge of the front of the house, near the front porch. The kid didn’t seem to notice.

He watched the kid—he was probably about eleven—ring the doorbell with his elbow. After a couple seconds, the door opened, a girl in a blue bathrobe walking out, shutting the door behind her. Gene recognized the bathrobe as one of Paul’s, though she filled it out better than he ever had. She wasn’t even wearing anything beneath it that he could tell, cleavage obvious, the loosely-tied bathrobe hiding none of it. Curly, dark hair—Gene wondered if this was the girlfriend, or bedmate, that Peter had seen earlier. No telling.

“How much was it?” she asked the kid.

“Eight twenty-five.”

“You have the receipt?”

The kid pulled out the receipt. The girl looked at it, nodded, then took a wallet from the pocket of Paul’s bathrobe, tugging out a couple bills.

“Here’s nine. Keep the change.”

“Thanks.” The kid paused. “I thought somebody famous was supposed to live here.”

“You thought wrong.” The girl took the two bags of groceries and turned back towards the door, trying to use her elbow to turn the knob. The kid was already back on his bicycle. As he kicked the stand up, he called back out to her over his shoulder.

“Hey, you gonna need groceries next week, too?”

“I hope not.” She set both bags on the front porch. The kid nodded, waving as he started down the driveway. The girl didn’t wave back, busy opening the door.

Now was Gene’s chance. He stepped out from behind the tree and walked to the front porch as the girl picked up one of the grocery bags again.

“Hey.”

She turned around immediately. Her eyes got big.

“Shit—Gene!”

She recognized him. That didn’t narrow it down. She looked familiar, somehow—she wasn’t a Playmate, Gene always recognized those—maybe a model, or a groupie? But Paul didn’t bring those home. Gene raised a finger to his mouth.

“Shh. Look, I’m here to see Paul. Is he in?”

“Wh—no. No, sorry.” A tense, quick smile. Definitely not a model. Only Ali MacGraw could manage to make it with crooked teeth.

“Can you tell me when he’ll be back?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know where he is.”

“So he just left you over here?”

The girl set the bag down, folding her arms. Something about the mannerism made an eerie feeling prickle down the back of Gene’s spine.

“Are you telling me I can’t be here?”

“No!” Gene pursed his lips. “Look, I don’t care who he’s with. But we’re supposed to go back on tour in a couple weeks and—”

“I know!”

“That’s great. So maybe it might be nice to know where he is beforehand.”

The girl bristled.

“I told you, I have no idea! I just—can’t you leave me alone?”

“You’re living in his house, wearing his bathrobe—that wasn’t even your wallet, was it?”

“Hey!”

Gene scrambled for it. The girl was fairly tall; he probably only had about five or six inches on her, but she wasn’t quick. He grabbed her shoulder with one hand, then jammed his other hand into the bathrobe’s pocket, starting to tug the wallet out. She clenched his arm, nails digging in roughly, not nearly hard enough for him to drop the wallet.

“Stop it! Let _go_ of me, you goddamn idiot!”

She shoved forward, stomping on his foot. Gene couldn’t feel that much of an impact, given the thickness of his boots. He kept a grip on her shoulder as he got the wallet fully in hand, opening it up as she screamed at him.

“You don’t understand, Gene! It’s not what you’re thinking!”

Unsurprisingly, Paul’s driver’s license photo was the first thing staring back at him from the see-through plastic card slot. Eisen, Stanley B. (God, the guy still hadn’t legally gotten his name changed) printed across it. Beyond the license was a handful of credit and business cards, as if Gene really needed to thumb through them for any further confirmation.

“You stole his wallet.”

“I didn’t steal it!”

She had a lisp, Gene noticed out of nowhere.

“Like hell you didn’t. Where is he?”

“I told you, I don’t—”

She jerked back abruptly, digging her nails deeper into his arm. He didn’t let go, but his hand shifted, accidentally yanking the bathrobe down at the shoulder. The girl’s eyes got huge. One of her breasts was exposed, which would’ve been plenty distracting enough, under normal circumstances, but for once, Gene’s eyes went to her bare shoulder first.

More specifically, the rose tattoo on her bare shoulder.

It wasn’t possible. It had to be a coincidence. He only saw the tattoo for a second at best, before she smacked his hand away and yanked the bathrobe back into place, covering her shoulder.

It didn’t prove anything. But in a nice, W.A.S.P.y neighborhood like Paul’s, how many chicks had tattoos? And how many would have one like that, a Lyle Tuttle tattoo, when Lyle’s shop was clear across the country?

She looked pissed-off. Scared, too. Something about the tight, sour way her lips were pressed together seemed weirdly familiar. The way she was acting didn’t add up. She’d called him by his first name on automatic. No deference or starry-eyed behavior. This girl didn’t give a damn about him being a rockstar. Those caustic responses made it come off like—like she really knew him.

That prickly feeling down his spine was only getting worse, even as he tried to dismiss it as impossible. If Gene was right, what he was about to do was incredibly cruel. If he was wrong, he’d just owe Paul Stanley’s latest chick a sincere apology. He wasn’t sure which option was worse.

But he had to know. He let go of the bathrobe and quickly shoved his hand through the girl’s tangled, curly hair, starting just at the temple, lifting it up to fully expose the right side of her face. The abject horror in her dark brown eyes might have been confirmation all on its own, but the damage was already done. He’d already pushed back enough of her hair to see what he’d only ever been told about before.

“Gene, y-you fucking asshole!”

Not an inch past one wispy sideburn was a stub of cartilage where her right ear should have been.

He wasn’t dealing with Paul’s girl of the duration. He was dealing with Paul.


	2. wondering what i'd do when i'm through tonight

Gene carried the groceries in for Paul. It felt like the lousiest apology, but he didn’t know what else to do. Paul looked as if he were seconds from tears—pretty horrifying, for Gene to try to realign his whole thought process, to try and reconcile the Paul he’d known for the last eight years with the pretty brunette currently slumped over the kitchen island—and Gene didn’t know how to mitigate that, either. Paul wasn’t much of a crier. Under the circumstances, though, Gene couldn’t exactly blame him.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Forget it.”

“Look—I thought it might be you from the tattoo, but I had to make sure—”

“You made sure, okay? You definitely did that much.” Paul’s elbows were resting on the counter. His mouth was pressed against his clasped hands, muffling his words. “Fuck it, Gene. You were supposed to just write me back.”

Gene rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, you cut off contact with everybody a month before we go back on tour, and then you send me a two-sentence postcard and expect me to act like a fucking pen-pal. C’mon, Paul.”

“Well, obviously, I didn’t want you coming over! You think I wanted anyone to see me like this? I already had to run Peter off!”

So that had been him earlier. Shit.

“How did this even happen?” Medically, it was impossible. Paul probably hadn’t had this little hair on him since he was ten years old. To say nothing of the drop in height, or the total reconfiguration of his body shape. He still looked pretty similar in the face, same big brown eyes, same slightly crooked chin and full lips, but the features were a little softer. Really, he looked like a good bit like his older sister, although Gene knew better than to mention it. Paul hadn’t seen Julia in at least three years.

The guys had always made fun of Gene for his lack of discernment, and he knew there were plenty of women that looked like dogs dotting his photo albums, but Paul was—actually kind of pretty. Or would be, if his eyes, always a little sad-looking, weren’t all watery and his mouth wasn’t glued in that firm line behind his hand. Even Peter, who, oddly enough, probably had better taste in women, looks-wise, than any of the four of them, had said Paul was cute. And the tits—shit, Gene was distracting himself. Paul had taken his time answering anyway.

“How should I know how this happened? I woke up like this!”

“When?”

“Wednesday morning.”

“That’s five days. You’ve been like this for five days?” Before Paul could answer, Gene added, bewildered, “Have you gone anywhere?”

It wouldn’t have surprised him much if Paul had holed up in the house the entire time. He did that enough normally. Gene could understand that, to a point. Gene never knew what to do with himself off-tour, either, except get laid, but Paul usually added a healthy dose of self-pity on top of the lays. Given what had happened to him, he’d probably been feeling sorrier for himself than usual.

Paul surprised him by bringing his hands down from in front of his mouth and nodding.

“I drove to Peaches yesterday.”

“You drove?”

“You think I could’ve convinced my chauffeur I was Paul Stanley?”

“Might have an easier time with him than you would a cop.”

“A cop? I’m a great driver—”

“You don’t have a license right now.”

Paul’s lips pursed and he went quiet for a while. Like the full magnitude of his situation had only just dawned on him. Not that Gene wasn’t sympathetic. This was going to screw him over, too. The new tour a month away, and their frontman not only entirely unable to prove his identity, but—really, assuming he got the other guys and their management to believe him, what was he supposed to do? Strut onstage in that sequin-studded jumpsuit, singing about the dick he didn’t even have? Even Bill Aucoin couldn’t spin a story about Paul getting a sex change into anything close to palatable for the magazines and papers. If they didn’t get this shit fixed and turn Paul back into a guy, KISS was sunk.

Gene let the silence hang in the air rather than try to fill it up with small talk or reassurances. He got up and started taking Paul’s groceries out of the paper bags, just to give his hands something to do. A wrapped package of deli meat, several cans of Tab, a bunch of celery, and a loaf of sandwich bread were all that was in the first bag. The groceries of a depressed catalog model, not a rockstar. He put it all up in the pantry and fridge unceremoniously. Paul didn’t have a breadbox, so Gene left the loaf on the counter next to the sink. The second bag of groceries was just as dismal, maybe worse—peanut butter, saltines, apples, and, horrifyingly, a box of Kotex. Shit. Had Paul already given up on going back to normal, or—

“You’re not on the rag, are you?”

“Fuck, no. Put that back.” Paul was going crimson. Gene felt sorry enough for him to drop the Kotex back into the bag and return to his seat across from him at the kitchen island.

“Are you planning to just wait around for it? Haven’t you _done_ anything yet?”

“Gene, I don’t know what to do. I did get some books sent over.” Paul got up and went to the living room, returning with some paperbacks under his arm, which he dumped on the kitchen table. Usually, Paul’s reading material consisted of teenybopper magazines with his face on the cover, contracts, and his own unflattering comics of his bandmates. Now Gene found himself next to copies of _The Lesser Key of Solomon_ , _The Secret Lore of Magic_ , and LaVey’s _The Satanic Rituals_. He could’ve sworn the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up just from cracking the spines. Gene tried to swallow his nerves as best he could, tried to look at the whole deal clinically, never mind what years of yeshiva and the start of rabbinical school had taught him, but every sigil-covered page made him feel a bit ill.

“You haven’t tried any of this, have you?”

Paul snorted.

“Fuck, no. I’m already going to hell, there’s no point in expediting the trip.” He blew his bangs out of his face with a breath. They settled back in front of his eyes almost immediately, and he shook his head. “I just wanted to read up. I thought if I could figure out how it happened, I could get someone else to reverse it for me.”

“Like a witch.”

Paul flinched slightly.

“Well, yeah, since that’s probably who did it in the first place.” He was standing behind Gene, reaching over him and pointing at the book he’d opened. “Oh, it’s in this one. Hang on.”

Gene shifted obediently, trying to ignore the feeling of Paul’s bare chest pressed against his back. He knew Paul wasn’t coming onto him, not consciously, at least, but—fuck, the last several years on the road had spoiled him. Every chick he got near wanted to get laid, if not by him, then by one of his bandmates. But Paul wasn’t actually a chick, a fact made all the more apparent by how utterly oblivious he was to the fact that his bathrobe was halfway open, again.

He handed Paul the book. Paul was thumbing through it before long, in his usual way, licking his finger with every pageturn. Gene could see the remnants of black nail polish on his fingernails—still aggressively manicured—and a couple of marks beneath his knuckles.

“What happened to your hands there?”

“Huh? I bit them.”

“Why?”

Paul shrugged and cleared his throat.

“Anyway, found it.” He pointed to a passage alongside a lithograph of a lion head. “‘Marbas, alias Barbas is a great president, and appeareth in the forme of a mightie lion—'”

“Paul, the e on the end of ‘forme’ is silent.”

“Shut up—‘he bringeth diseases and cureth them, promoteth wisdom’…. It’s in here, I swear—there! ‘He changes men into other shapes.’ So that’s probably the demon that whoever it was conjured up.”

Paul looked more than vaguely pleased with himself. Gene almost felt bad for not being impressed. Almost.

“That’s all you’ve come up with this whole time.”

“It’s only been five days, Gene, I—”

“What else were you doing?”

“What do you mean, what else was I doing? I woke up with tits! Don’t you think that’s a little fucking traumatizing?”

“You had—” Gene just shook his head.

“I don’t have anything, Gene. You said so yourself. I don’t even have access to my own bank account. I’m done once the cash runs out.”

Gene started to ask how much cash Paul had on hand, then thought better of it. Probably not a whole lot. Paul had the annoying habit of charging everything he could to either the label or the KISS Corporation proper while they were on tour, and not letting anyone know until the following board meeting. Off-tour probably wasn’t much different.

“Did you make a list?” he asked finally.

“A list?”

“A list of anyone you think could’ve done this to you.”

Paul shook his head.

“That’s the thing. Nobody I know would’ve wanted to do this to me.”

“Then maybe it’s someone you don’t know.”

“Like who? Gene, what good does it do anybody if I’m stuck as a girl?”

“Revenge. You have any exes into the occult?”

“Not that I know of.” Paul cocked his head, considering. “Mostly they break up with me, not the other way around.”

“Groupies, then?”

“Gene, I don’t—take notes on every girl I fuck, it’s not that important to me.”

“Did you get with anyone strange lately? Maybe, I don’t know, a cult member or something?”

“I don’t think so—”

“Anyone ask you anything weird? Or try and get a lock of your hair?” Gene’s knowledge of the occult was limited, but he did vaguely remember needing—what was it, the person’s clothes or hair before any magic could be done on them. At least, that was how it worked on _Dark Shadows_.

“That happens every tour at least three times.”

“I’m trying to figure this out for you.” God. Paul had had almost a week that he could’ve spent seriously researching his predicament, and all he’d done was buy a couple of books, send Gene a postcard, and sit around moping. “Did—”

“There was this one girl who yanked out some of my chest hair a couple weeks ago,” Paul said slowly. “I didn’t really think much of it at the time. I thought it was, y’know, a kink thing. It was cool, right, kind of a you’re the boss deal—”

Gene winced.

“Did she say anything?”

“She said she was going to make me feel like she did.”

“And you didn’t think that was strange.”

“No! It was while we were doing some S&M shit!” Paul’s face was going slightly pink. “It was fun! You go on tour and you end up with a lot of real desperate virgins and groupies with V.D. and none of them really—they just wanna do what you want, they don’t wanna ever take the lead, and this girl, she had me up against the—”

“I get the idea,” Gene snapped, although he didn’t at all. He wasn’t picturing the encounter as it’d happened, just Paul as he was right now, up against the wall, breasts heaving, one long leg hooked around his waist. Fuck, was it hard to look at him. Gene had never been ashamed of his own lasciviousness until faced with the one person who noticed it and needed it least. “Okay. We’re going to get this taken care of.”

“How?”

“I’m calling Ace.”

“ _Ace?_ ” Paul was almost squeaking. “Don’t call Ace!”

“Relax, I’m not gonna tell him what happened.”

“Then what are you—”

“Just trust me, Paul.”

Gene got up and walked over to the kitchen phone. Paul looked as though he were about to argue, but then he just shook his head, watching carefully as Gene punched in Ace’s number.

“Hey. Hey, Jeanette, this is Gene. Is Ace around? Let me talk to him for a second.” Gene rubbed the back of his head with his free hand while he waited. He could hear Jeanette calling Ace over, and a little shuffling, just before Ace picked up the phone.

“Hey.”

“Hey, Ace.”

“You find Paulie?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s fine. I’m at his house.”

“What was he pulling that prima donna crap over, anyway?”

“He’s…” It was hard to talk to Ace casually with Paul staring at him. “He’s fine. Just paranoid.”

“Paranoid? Why?” Ace sounded a little disbelieving. Gene couldn’t blame him. “He didn’t start on some shit, did he? Thought all he took was white cross.”

“He’s not on anything. He’s worried about the tour.” Gene paused. “You still go to that psychic, don’t you?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“Do you have her number?”

“Gene, you don’t believe in psychics or any of that—”

“Yeah, but Paul does. I thought I’d make him an appointment, ease his mind some.” Gene watched Paul’s brow furrow, one corner of his mouth lifting up in a wary expression.

“You’d make it for him?” Ace’s tone was dubious. “I’ve got her number somewhere. Let me find it.”

Gene heard rustling in the background, and Ace asking Jeanette where the address book was. Jeanette said something in return, and then Gene was almost worried they’d both forgotten about the call until he heard Ace’s high voice back on the line.

“Okay. Her name’s Suzie, she’s got a little office over in the Bronx if you wanna pop over in person. I dunno the address, though, you’ll have to call.” Ace rattled off the phone number as Gene scrambled for a pen and paper. He had to settle for a napkin. “Hey, could you tell Paul to call up Peter sometime? He’s getting kind of worried.”

“Yeah, I will. It’s nothing personal.”

Ace laughed.

“Pete ain’t gonna believe that secondhand, you know that. See you, Geno.”

“Bye.” Gene hung up the phone. Paul got up from his chair.

“You’re getting me an appointment with Ace’s psychic.”

“Yeah. Do you have to check your dance card first?”

“Psychics can’t reverse curses,” Paul said flatly.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“No.”

“Then you’re going.” Before Paul could protest, Gene snatched the phone off the hook again and started dialing. “Get dressed. I’m pretty sure she’ll be willing to pencil you in quick.”


	3. smokin', mopin', maybe just hopin'

Paul fretted and complained ad-nauseum. He didn’t want to see the psychic this soon; it was too much pressure. He didn’t have any clothes. Or rather, he had clothes, just nothing he wanted to wear. Gene knew he had at least two dresses—the black floral with the bell sleeves from his drag birthday party back in January, and a black polka-dot number from another party—and a substantial assortment of women’s blouses. What he didn’t have, and what Gene knew for a fact he didn’t have, was anything that fit correctly. No pants that would’ve worked. All Paul’s blouses and dresses were cut far too widely at the shoulders for him now. He’d be drowning in them.

“Look, Paul, you can’t run around in a bathrobe all day,” Gene countered, although he suspected that was what Paul had been doing for most of the last five days. “What did you wear to Peaches?”

“The dress from my birthday. It’s in the washing machine.”

“Are you even wearing underwear?”

At any other time, with a girl that looked like Paul, the question would’ve been a teasing come-on. Right now, it was a serious indictment of his hygiene.

“I have on boxers.” Paul shot him an aggrieved look as he said it. “What’s it matter to you, anyway?”

“They’re probably about to fall off, is why it matters.” Gene grunted, trying to think. “What shoes did you wear out?”

“I stuffed some heels with tissue paper.”

That was a start, at least. Gene sighed.

“You’ll feel better with real clothes on. And I’ll feel better when your tits aren’t falling out of your bathrobe.”

Paul glanced down reflexively and bit his lip, untying and then retying the robe a little more snugly.

“I’ll get the other dress,” he mumbled, padding out of the kitchen without a backwards glance. Gene watched him retreat, waiting until he heard the bedroom door shut before he got up and opened Paul’s pantry door again, pushing past the groceries he’d already shelved.

He didn’t really expect to find anything good in there. Paul was almost pathologically afraid of gaining weight. He was always at his worst about it right before tours, too. Gene would catch him at the pool, staring at his chest and stomach like they’d personally offended him just by existing at all. He honestly seemed to think he could starve his way into a set of abs. The burden of being the band’s sex symbol, Gene supposed, pushing aside some packages of instant ramen and TVP (weird, if Paul was trying vegetarianism, that’d just add another expense to their tour budget—not that they’d have a tour if he didn’t get fixed) to find a small, shameful stack of Hershey’s chocolate bars.

He deserved something after the stress and frustrated arousal of the last hour or so. Gene took the entire stack of candy back to the kitchen island. He hadn’t even sat down before tearing into the first chocolate bar, and he’d only gotten two rows of it down his throat before Paul reemerged, in the black polka-dot dress from the drag party.

For a minute, Gene forgot he was eating.

Oh, the dress didn’t fit right. Too baggy in the shoulders, as expected, and the style was frumpy, not really showing off his figure much, besides his chest, still not contained with a bra. But Paul looked… pretty good. Definitely better than he had in the bathrobe. His curly hair was a lot less matted, and it seemed like he was standing a bit straighter.

“Cute.”

Paul shifted uncomfortably.

“I still don’t want to see the psychic today.”

“I haven’t made an appointment yet. It’s fine.” It was late afternoon, anyway. Gene didn’t know what hours psychics kept—if Ace was their clientele, chances were good they weren’t nine to five—but something kept him from trying Suzie’s number yet. He wasn’t sure if it was just not wanting to put Paul through more discomfort than he had to today, or if it was something else. Something like wanting to spend some time with him.

“You’re eating my candy.”

Gene snapped a clean row off the chocolate bar, holding it up to Paul like an offering. Paul shook his head.

“I’ll pay you back with dinner, then, how’s that?”

“Will you?”

“Dinner and a movie.”

“Oh, come off it, Gene—”

“Takeout and a movie. How about it?”

“Only if it’s on _Masterpiece Theatre_.”

“No. You’re fucking miserable. I’m getting you out of the house at least for the movie bit.” Gene started to smile, reaching over and sticking the last bit of chocolate in Paul’s mouth on impulse. Paul looked embarrassed, but he took it, licking his lips after he swallowed. It was more distracting than Gene had expected. “Have you seen _Smokey and the Bandit_ yet?”

“No.”

“I haven’t, either. C’mon. You can drive us to the movie theater.” In what he hoped might be the clincher, Gene added two words he’d rarely spoken. “I’ll pay.”

“But it’s like you said. I don’t have a license right now.”

“You’re also an ex-cabbie. I’m not too concerned.”

Paul’s brows were still furrowed. But it looked like he was considering it.

“Then what about getting recognized? Maybe I don’t need to worry about that right now, but you do, and—”

“So let me worry about that, okay? Just relax.” He was trying too hard, maybe. Shrugging off legitimate concerns. If Paul did get pulled over, chances were pretty good the officer would look the other way at his lack of a matching license. Gene could play the celebrity card if he had to in order to evade any real trouble. He was loath to do that under normal circumstances, and he didn’t enjoy the thought of breaking the law, if only by a supernatural technicality, but if it got Paul out of the house, then he’d go for it.

Getting recognized at the movie theater was the problem—Gene didn’t know how Paul would react to cameras flashing in his face when he was like this—but he was prepared to risk it anyway. Besides, half of being recognized lay in dressing the part of a rockstar, and that went for whoever he had on his arm, too. The blue jeans and polyester button-down he was wearing right now were toned-down enough from his usual fare, and Paul’s dress was oversized and out of style. Hopefully, all that would let them go to the movies unnoticed.

“Okay.”

“You’ll go?”

“Yeah. I’ll go.”

“Good.” The corner of Gene’s mouth lifted up. “Cheapest date I’ve had in years, Paul.”

Paul flipped him off and snatched the rest of the stack of chocolate bars back. It was, Gene thought, a small price to pay to watch Paul flush all the way to his neck.

\--

They didn’t get pulled over, and they didn’t get recognized. Paul opened the door for Gene into the theater, the way he always did, which afforded him some weird looks from the other moviegoers, but that was about it. Smooth sailing.

Gene got takeout from a Chinese restaurant nearby afterwards. They ended up eating it in the car on the drive back, Paul picking out eggrolls from the boxes and stuffing them in his mouth guilelessly. Gene got the impression he hadn’t eaten all day. He even tried to eat the fried rice while he drove, with the box in his lap, but Gene put a stop to that, and after awhile he started sticking forkfuls of rice in front of Paul’s face as a compromise. Apart from nearly missing a turn a few miles from his house, it didn’t seem like it distracted Paul too badly. If he’d noticed Gene’s pants tenting with every forkful, he never mentioned it.

In fact, it seemed like Paul was in better shape now. The only time he really faltered was when he turned on the radio, to check on the traffic, only for “Rock and Roll All Nite” to come blaring in. He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders slumped, and he turned it off so quickly, and so hard, Gene was almost afraid he’d broken the radio button.

“We’ll get you fixed, Paul, I promise.”

“What if we can’t?”

“We’ll do it.” Gene didn’t want to think of the alternative. Paul had probably thought enough about it for both of them. They’d never be able to keep the band going with a girl fronting. Their image wasn’t right for that. Maybe Paul could keep writing songs, or Gene could pull some strings and get him signed to Casablanca as a solo act… no, that’d kill him. All of that would just kill him. Despite all the cracks forming in the band, Paul wanted to go solo about as much as Frank Sinatra wanted to join the Beach Boys. “Trust me.”

Paul nodded dully, before glancing up at the rearview mirror. He seemed to only just then realize he was pulling into his own driveway.

“Oh, shit. Did you want me to take you home? I forgot.”

“Nah, it’s fine.”

“You sure? I don’t mind driving.”

“I’m sure.”

“Then use my phone and call your chauffeur.” Paul parked the car, automatically trying to put the keys in a pocket the dress didn’t have. Gene shook his head, getting out of the car.

“It’s past eleven. I’ll just stay at your place.” That was better for both of them. More convenient than Gene having his driver take him home, and then back the next day. Plus, he figured Paul could use the company. He had the feeling the kid who’d brought his groceries and Peter were the only other people Paul had spoken to since he’d been cursed. “Hell, I’ll even shower.”

“You’d better.” Paul unlocked the door, letting him in. Gene stepped inside, expecting Paul to point him toward the guest bedroom. Instead, he hesitated, taking off the tissue-stuffed heels and sticking them on a shoe rack without a word.

“I will.”

“Would you stay with me?” Paul burst into the words all of a sudden, then added, “Not like _that_. I don’t wanna fuck you.”

That made one of them, Gene thought dryly. God. Someone as self-conscious as Paul couldn’t be completely oblivious to the effect his new form was having on Gene. Couldn’t think Gene was just teasing him. Gene wasn’t sure if it was denial on Paul’s part or what. Sleeping in the same bed as Paul, when Paul was a shade under six-foot, hairy-chested, and guaranteed to be prickly-faced by noon had never been an enticing prospect, just something he’d had to deal with every so often over the years. Sleeping in the same bed as Paul now that he was a chick…

“I’m the same person, you know.” So he wasn’t oblivious. Gene didn’t know if that was reassuring, as he followed Paul into his bedroom. The bed was unmade, and the whole room smelled like Aramis cologne. “Just don’t wake me up with a hard-on. I’ll make it up to you later.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Shut up.” Paul opened one of the dresser drawers, thumbing through the contents. “You still sleep in pajamas?”

“Only if I’m spending the night alone.”

Paul tossed a pair of pajama bottoms in his face.

Paul generally slept naked or in boxers, as far as Gene remembered from the times they’d shared a hotel room. Selfishly, he was hoping that wouldn’t have changed. The glances he’d gotten of Paul’s breasts earlier were mostly too brief for proper appreciation.

Instead, after Gene had showered and put on the borrowed pajama bottoms, Paul got a t-shirt and another pair of boxers out of the dresser and headed off to the bathroom, returning with them on, the hem of the shirt nearly lined up with where the boxers ended. Disappointing, but not surprising.

“You don’t have to cover up because of me.”

“If I thought you couldn’t keep your hands off me, I wouldn’t have asked you to stick around.”

Gene didn’t know how to answer that.

Paul tossed and turned that night, which wasn’t abnormal for him, but kept Gene up. At one point, the twitchy way he kept moving around made him tempted to ask Paul where his hand was, but he bit back the comment, reaching over instead to find Paul facedown against the mattress. Gene grasped his shoulder.

“You’re making the bed creak,” he mumbled out, and felt Paul still against him for a few gratifying seconds before he fell asleep.

\--

The truth was, Paul had been trying to get off.

He had been every night for the last three nights, once the initial horror had worn off enough for him to be dejectedly curious. It hadn’t ever worked, and not just because he’d get spooked before he got very far. Every time he slipped a finger inside—not even a full finger, just barely past the first knuckle—it honestly hurt. Even tracing a finger across his clit wasn’t some quick-trigger to pleasure the way he’d always assumed. Everything just felt sore and tender.

He knew it couldn’t be a virginity thing. A regular chick could get off on her own without a problem. He’d seen that plenty. He was just stuck. It figured, really, to get trapped in a body that couldn’t even orgasm properly. No distractions from how damn miserable he was, with his life caving in on him, Gene totally unable to hide how much he wanted to fuck him—and the worst part was, Paul couldn’t find the dignity or the self-respect to call him out on it. Some pathetic part of him was actually enjoying the flickers of want that kept crossing Gene’s face. He’d never garnered Gene’s attention as a guy, not that he’d expected to, but—

He was thinking too much. He hadn’t been able to call up Hilsen since this shit had started, which didn’t help at all. But what could a therapist say to him now, anyway? Could he self-help his way into getting his dick back? With the way things were going, nothing was going to happen. He’d thought Peter’s coke habit was what would put them all out on their asses. But instead it looked like Paul was the one who was about to destroy the band just as they’d gotten a top-ten hit. He’d never get to play for another audience again. In a couple of weeks, he’d have to leave his own house and be assumed missing or dead, with all his assets taken by his parents. Then he’d probably be living on Gene’s dime for as long as it took for Gene to quit feeling pity for him, and that was if he was lucky. That was if Gene and the other guys didn’t take all matters into their own hands and get another frontman. Probably use one of his abandoned makeup designs for him, too. Paul exhaled softly against the pillows, too sickened by the thought to want to pursue it further.

But something had happened. Just for a little bit, when Gene had touched him. Paul’s hand was between his thighs, furtively searching for a little warmth, and then he’d felt Gene’s fingers curve around his shoulder. Not rough, and not tender, just there, firm and steadying. Paul’s hips twitched almost on their own at the touch, and all of a sudden, something hot burst deep within him, and he felt his own fingers actually sliding briefly against his folds. Just briefly. For the first time, he’d gotten wet.

He lay there a long time, past when Gene’s hand slipped away as Gene fell asleep, caught between trying to will that feeling back and fearing he’d only wake Gene up in the process. In the end Paul compromised, shamefully, scooting up close enough that he could smell the faint tinges of Chinese food on Gene’s breath as he slept. He’d forgotten to offer him a toothbrush before bed.

Paul couldn’t remember daring to touch him, but he must have, at least in his sleep, because he woke up early the next morning with his face pressed against Gene’s bare arm, and drool pooling on the sheets.


	4. some little girl will pass on by

“Wake up, Gene. I made breakfast.”

Rubbing his eyes, Gene still had to do a double take when he saw Paul. Back in a bathrobe, of course, although this time he at least had last night’s shirt underneath it. The bathrobe was different, too—this one was white and only hung down to his knees instead of his ankles.

“Breakfast in bed? And here I thought the romantic schtick was you putting on.”

“It is. _Up_.”

Gene raised an eyebrow.

“Up?”

“It’s in the kitchen. I’m not bringing it to you.”

Gene laughed but followed Paul out of his bedroom.

He hadn’t made a fancy spread out of it. Several pieces of toast, some with cheese, and some crusted with butter and cinnamon-sugar, scrambled eggs, and a carton of milk were all that greeted him, but it was still a lot more than Gene had expected out of Paul, who tended to only eat cereal, if anything, early in the morning.

“What’s the occasion?” Gene managed before digging in. Paul shrugged.

“You’re putting up with a lot right now.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook.”

“Toast and eggs isn’t really cooking, Gene.” Another shrug. Paul frowned, and then untied the bathrobe and draped it across a chair, to Gene’s surprise. And disappointment. Underneath, he was still wearing both the shirt and boxers from last night. “Me and Julia had to fix our own food growing up.” He started to laugh, dryly. “Lots of T.V. dinners and frozen shit. It’s probably why I was so fat as a kid.”

“Didn’t your mom—”

“My mom’s a nurse. She was always working.” Paul picked one of the pieces of cheese toast off the plate, tearing off the crust as he spoke. He hadn’t sat down yet. “And my dad had his shop… he’s still got his shop, you know.”

“Still?”

“He said he didn’t want me taking his living away from him. He thinks we’ll go bust any day.” Paul’s mouth twisted, and he walked over to the trash can. “He was probably right.”

“I’ll eat the crusts,” Gene said abruptly, when he realized Paul was about to toss them in. The wince that flashed across Paul’s face was just enough for him to backtrack, though Paul did hand over the crusts. “We’ll see the psychic today. We’ll get this taken care of.”

“Is that your way of telling me to get dressed?”

The dress Paul had said was in the washing machine was significantly shorter than the polka-dot number from yesterday.

“Absolutely.”

\--

“What’d you tell the psychic, anyway?” Paul asked, as he pushed his sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose. He was driving again. They’d gotten an appointment for only an hour after breakfast. Just enough time for Paul to shower and for Gene to pull on his clothes from yesterday. Paul had halfheartedly offered his own clothes to Gene, but Gene, aware they wouldn’t fit, had turned him down. If he kept having to spend nights at Paul’s, he’d have to grab some of his own clothes from home and bring them back. He didn’t think Paul could tolerate him in the same outfit for days on end.

“Oh, that I was Gene Simmons and my girlfriend thought I was cheating on her.”

“ _Gene!_ ”

“Relax. I just told her I was coming in with a friend.”

“Why did you tell her that?”

“Easy. It’s a cheap litmus test.” Ace’s superstitious dabblings were probably the scant leftovers from his hippie days, for the most part, but the guy was pretty canny, in a certain way. Gene couldn’t quite see him falling for some run-of-the-mill swindler. “If she’s really a psychic, she should be able to figure out something’s wrong with you without being told.”

“God, Gene, you make it sound like I’ve got leprosy.” Paul changed lanes, leaning in to get a better look at the street sign ahead. “I think this is the right road—lemme see that address again.”

Gene unfolded the paper and held it up in front of Paul, who nodded.

“You know what I meant, Paul.”

“Still.”

He pulled into the parking lot near the dilapidated building. Like Ace had said, it looked like she only had an office there. The paint on the window looked relatively new, at least, “Suzie’s Psychic Readings” in bubbly, neon-bright letters. They got out together, Paul tossing his keys and sunglasses to Gene, and went inside.

It wasn’t quite as garish inside as Gene had feared. There was the smell of incense and patchouli, a beaded curtain, potted bamboo, and a cheap Oriental rug, but no stockpile of weird merchandise like crystals and Japanese trinkets. That was a little reassuring. A blonde girl in bellbottoms and braids rushed to greet them.

“Mr. Simmons!”

She stuck out her hand, and Gene shook it. Abruptly, Gene realized Paul wasn’t the only one who’d forgone a bra this morning. Her nipples were obvious beneath her thin peasant-style top.

“I’m Suzie! Now why don’t you and your friend come on back? How would you like to start, is your interest in tarot-reading or more of an astrology bent—are you looking for guidance on—”

“It’s actually more about my friend,” Gene said. “I’m just here for support.”

“Are you?” Her grin widened. She held out her hand for Paul, too, who took it without enthusiasm. The girl jerked back as soon as she touched him, the smile fleeing her face. “What the—I-I’m sorry, you—” She was staring at him hard, eyes only briefly going to Gene’s face, almost in accusation. “Did you do this to him?”

“What the hell? No! I’m trying to get him back to normal!”

“He is,” Paul vouched. The excitement was clear on his face. “Gene, you said you didn’t tell her.”

“I didn’t.”

“Come on back,” Suzie said. She looked scared, almost. The perkiness had completely disappeared from her demeanor. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

They followed her into the next room. This was laid out a little more like Gene had expected, a table covered by a heavy purple tablecloth that dragged the floor, decks of tarot cards, and star-covered curtains. She pushed the cards aside, waving them to take a seat and grabbing Paul’s hand as soon as they did, tracing her fingers across his palm.

“You won’t mind if I skip the usual spiel, will you? You’re not here for me to tell you about your past or your future, you’re here to find out who did this. Aren’t you, Paul?”

Gene made a mental note to thank Ace profusely. Just leading him to this girl was repayment for all those drunken fiascos on tour. He glanced over at Paul. He looked tense, but he nodded.

“Yeah. Ace, he recommended you.” He swallowed. “I’ve been over it. I don’t think I’ve got an ex who’d do this.”

“You don’t.” Flatly. “But you’ve slept with someone who would.”

“A groupie, then? Was it the one who—sorry,” Paul said suddenly. “I’ll just let you tell me.”

“I don’t know.” Her eyebrows were knitted together, and she was staring at Paul’s palm hard. She didn’t drop it for at least a minute. Gene was a little concerned that she was trying to go into a trance, or something weird like that, but then she looked up again. “I can’t break the curse. The best I can do is try to lead you to the one who did it. Do you have anything from before this happened? Anything you were wearing, or kept on your person?”

“I’ve worn this dress before this happened,” Paul said bluntly. Suzie flushed. “What, won’t it count?”

“Something more, ah, regular. Something you’re tied to.”

Paul shook his head.

“Like what? My rings don’t fit. I don’t carry a handkerchief. I didn’t bring my wallet. Shit, am I really going to have to go home and get something before you can help?”

Gene reached over on impulse. Paul flinched slightly when he touched his hair, letting out a breath when Gene’s finger ran across his good ear, and the small gold hoop still dangling from the lobe.

“Would this do?”

Suzie brightened.

“Yeah! The stronger the connection, the more likely I’ll be able to get a read.”

“You get a read from objects?” Gene asked.

“It’s psychometry,” Paul said, unscrewing the earring from the post and giving it to the girl. “It was probably on before; I always forget to take it off. Might as well be good for something besides getting caught in my hair.”

“Perfect.” She rubbed the earring in her hand. Gene was almost offended on Paul’s behalf; the way she was rubbing it, it seemed like she was expecting the finish to come off on her hand, but then she closed her eyes. “Oh…”

Gene waited, glancing at Paul intermittently. Paul was actually sweating, his focus totally on the psychic. Better to not disturb him. Gene’s glance sunk down—the black-on-floral dress hung to just below Paul’s knees when he was standing, but his posture while sitting meant it was riding up above his knees. He was getting a pretty good view of Paul’s legs (he’d shaven, even, probably out of habit from being on tour). Distracting as all hell, the long, uninterrupted line from the hem of the dress to Paul’s pumps, even though his ankle was hanging out of them. He swallowed, trying to force his attention away before Paul noticed. Luckily, Suzie started to speak again.

“I can see a nightclub.”

“Which nightclub? When?”

“There’s letters…. C..B…”

“CBGB? What the hell were you going over there for, Paul? That place is a dump!”

“Shut up, Gene—”

“She’s small. Brown hair and freckles. She’s—you’ve had her before, but you don’t know it.” The earring was still clenched in her hand. “She’s been wanting to hurt you since the last time you met.”

“Why?”

Suzie didn’t answer.

“I see you in a hotel. She’s trying to get something of yours without being obvious. She starts tracing down your chest—”

Oh, God. He was going to hear the play by play of Paul’s liaison. Not what he wanted to hear under any circumstances, but especially not now, with Paul sitting right next to him, in that body, hanging onto every word. Suzie was going redder than a tomato.

“She’s the one that was pulling out my hair. Right?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Do you have a name? That’s what I want, more than anything.”

“I…” Suzie hesitated. “I’m not… I’m not seeing that you asked for one.”

“What?”

“I… I just go off feelings, thoughts, sights. What was on her mind and yours. It’s like a movie. If it’s not in the scene, I-I can’t—”

“What do you _mean_ , it’s not in the scene! I slept with her! Can’t… can’t you trace her somehow? Suzie, I’ve got to track this girl down!”

“Paul, I—”

Gene’s brain felt like it was spinning in overdrive as he tried to think. Just a first name, all Paul might have ever asked for, wouldn’t have done him any good, anyway, but maybe—

“Has—has she been to the club before? Is she a regular?”

Suzie hesitated, then nodded. Paul tore his gaze away from Suzie to give him a look so gratified that Gene felt positively filthy for spending so long staring at his legs.

“Does she know anyone there? Anyone working there? Or the bands—”

“Her brother bartends. He—” She seemed to be concentrating again, opening her palm. She’d been holding the earring so tightly that the indents stood out red against the lines. Her other hand rested against her forehead. “I’m trying to see if she saw him there while you were with her. I… yes. He… he’s in his mid-twenties. Not tall. He’s starting to bald a little, so he combs over his hair.” She blinked several times in succession, and offered Paul his earring back. “That’s all I’m seeing. I’m sorry it’s not more than that.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s a start.”

“It’s more than a start,” Paul corrected. He took the earring, putting it back in. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I just hope you find her.” Suzie stood up. “I’ve never seen anyone get cursed to such an extreme before. I don’t know that—” she stopped, and looked at Gene meaningfully. “Anyway, don’t thank me, but do pay me. And let me know if I can help again.”

Begrudgingly, Gene pulled out his checkbook.

“No telling Ace about this, right?”

“I never tell my clients about each other.” She was considerably sunnier when Gene handed her the check. Almost back to the girl who’d greeted them so brightly. It worried Gene, her whole reaction. Obviously, people didn’t get their sex swapped on them on a regular basis, but all the caution, the wording… the way she’d cut herself off… he pursed his lips. Paul seemed more relieved than he was, which was the important thing. He clapped a hand on Paul’s back as she walked them out, trying to be reassuring. “Good luck, you two.”

“I guess we’ve got our work cut out for us,” Gene said as Paul started up the car. “I still can’t believe you were picking up chicks at that punk rock dive bar.”

“I wasn’t only there to pick up chicks.” Paul smiled faintly. It was about the first time Gene had seen Paul come close to a real smile in two days. “The acts there remind me of us.”

“Really?” There was nothing punk rock about KISS. The edge the band had started out with was getting whittled away with every outside writer and musician they brought in on the records. “How?”

“When we first started. They’ve got to carry in their own equipment, they don’t have much of a setup. They get real wild. They’re having a lot of fun.” Paul turned out of the parking lot and onto the main road. “Sometimes I think we’re losing that. I dunno how to get it back.”

Gene knew what he meant. They couldn’t change their setlist on a whim anymore. The confetti and flashpots, the stunts, they were all timed. When the money was rolling in, he didn’t mind it, but if he allowed himself to think about it too long… something was getting too—manufactured, too predictable. He didn’t blame Paul for checking out the bizarre punk acts. It might be the inspiration they needed.

“You’re not taking us back to your place, are you?”

“Yeah.” Paul slowed to a stop at a red light. “We’ve got all day before we can try the club.”

“We need to get some clothes first. You can’t go to CBGB in that outfit. Neither can I.”

Paul hesitated.

“We’d only be in there to find the girl.”

“And it could take hours.” Or she might not even be there that night. “You’d stick out too much in that dress. It’s not punk at all.”

Paul looked like he was about to argue, then he shook his head.

“Okay, fine.”


	5. don't wanna be alone but i love my girl at home

Normally, Paul could spend hours in clothing stores. Tight jeans, platform boots, designer blouses and ascots. Feathery jackets and animal print coats. He’d dressed as wildly as possible from the time he was twelve or thirteen on, saving up every dime to buy new clothes, always hoping they’d be the ticket to feeling—oh, like _they_ did. Like other people must. Confident and swaggering. Gene had been like that from the very start, even though, when he’d met Gene, Gene had been easily forty pounds overweight and was wearing overalls that only emphasized his gut.

That had been a pretty rude awakening for Paul. He’d realized it wasn’t in looking the part. Confidence was something inherent. Offstage, he couldn’t ever seem to purchase more than small slivers of it. And he didn’t think he could purchase it now (well, on Gene’s dime), in a mid-tier boutique, self-consciously shoving his way through racks of bras. Gene hadn’t told him to pick one up, but he hadn’t had to, either. He’d known he needed one from the start; it kind of hurt to run up stairs without any support, and the nightclub would be fucking awful without a bra, but he’d just kept putting it off. As if this female body would go away if he refused to acknowledge it, like a groupie left to linger in the Coop until morning.

Speaking of groupies, he was still wondering about the one who’d cursed him. He could sort of remember her face as Suzie had described her, but it was puzzling. The S&M bit had been relatively light, no whips or toys, and she hadn’t come across like a nut. She’d said he’d had her before. That didn’t mean much, either. Especially in certain areas, he’d end up with some of the same groupies again. Sweet Connie, for one—the only girl Paul knew for a fact had fucked every single member of the band, and half its roadies—and there were plenty others. It was almost a wrestling circuit; the girls all knew each other, even if he didn’t know them.

But what could he really have done to make that girl that mad? He couldn’t remember promising a chick much of anything in several years. Sometimes he’d get a bit sloppy with it, toss the girl some cab fare as he asked her to leave (she’d think he meant it as a tip, and throw it back at him), but he didn’t get off on humiliating them like some guys did. They came with the room, that was all. Stress relief. God knew he’d heard of plenty of rockstars and movie stars who’d Quaalude the hell out of whatever girl (or guy) they wanted. But he’d never done something like that. Fuck, his chicks were actually sober.

It really didn’t add up. Gene was triple the cad than he was, and he still had his dick. Peter and Ace cheated constantly on their wives, but Lydia and Jeanette hadn’t joined forces and sent a sex-changing demon after them. Whatever. He exhaled, taking four bras of slightly different sizes back to the dressing room and trying on each in turn, wishing he’d let the shopgirl help. The clasps were annoying enough that he ended up having to fasten the bras in the front, squashing his chest in the process, then turn the whole thing around just to put it on. The third bra out of the stack seemed to fit the best, a cream-colored underwire one that wasn’t too padded or too heavy on the lace and flowers. It looked okay reflected in the dressing room mirror, if a little stupid, paired with the boxers he was still stubbornly clinging to.

After another ten minutes or so, he’d also picked out a few pairs of underwear and a pair of fishnet stockings. Another half an hour and he had a fake leather jacket, graphic tee, cut-off jean shorts, and a pair of boots. He didn’t really dig the ensemble in the mirror. More that he didn’t dig the unhappy girl in the mirror any more than he dug the unhappy guy he usually saw there. But maybe he’d look punk enough for CBGB. Would he need more clothes than that, though? On the chance that she didn’t show, or, worse, didn’t reverse the curse? Paul’s stomach churned at the thought. He got another dress, two blouses, heels, and a pair of jeans, deciding he’d write Gene a check for everything once this was all over.

By the time he headed to check out, Gene was already waiting for him with his own bag of already-paid-for clothes. Paul tried to get a peek—he didn’t think Gene could go believably punk without intense help—but Gene held his two bags closed, pulling out a credit card to cover Paul’s purchases.

“Hey, that’s not fair. I could use the laugh, show me what you bought.” Aggravating enough to have Gene watch the clerk ring up the bra and underwear.

“Later.” Gene looked positively amused. Paul grabbed his own bags of clothes as soon as they were paid for, oblivious to the raised eyebrow the clerk threw Gene’s way for not carrying the bags for him.

“If you won’t show me, don’t expect me to drive you anywhere for lunch.”

The clerk perked up.

“Your girl’s driving? She’s got you by the balls.”

“You have no idea,” Gene said.

\--

They ended up going through the McDonald’s drive-thru for lunch without Gene having to divulge any of his purchases. Paul had dug up enough change from the middle console to pay for it, and he was chatting up a storm about CBGB’s semi-resident bands—Blondie, apparently, was a pretty good act—between handfuls of French fries.

“It doesn’t hold a ton of people, either, so if the groupie’s there, we’ll know pretty quickly. It’s not wall-to-wall like at Studio 54.” Paul shook his head. “Have you gone over there yet, Gene?”

“Not yet.” He’d meant to. The disco had just opened when they’d gotten off tour. The big stars had already marked it as their territory, people like Mick and Bianca Jagger, Diana Ross, and Liza Minnelli. The prospect of being in their league was its own intoxicant. “Have you?”

“Yeah, once. Y’know, I saw Andy Warhol there. He said he wanted to paint me.” Even through the food, Paul sounded pleased. “I kinda blew him off, I think he was just trying to come on to me, but hell, it might be fun.”

“Getting with Warhol?”

“Getting _painted_ by Warhol. Jesus, Gene.” He paused. “He’s not my type.”

“You’re not his type, right now.”

Paul looked a little stung, but didn’t retort for a second or two.

“What do you care, anyway?”

Gene stuffed about a third of the burger in his mouth and shrugged.

“I don’t.”

“Remember when he did the Marilyn Monroe screen prints? Everyone in my class was trying to make their own versions, and our teacher…”

Paul kept trailing off about his art magnet high school. Gene was only half-paying attention. Something strange and almost possessive had curdled in the back of his throat. He took a swig of his cup of Coke, but the feeling persisted. Maybe it was the dissonance. Girls worth talking to didn’t dismiss fucking so casually. Paul wasn’t really a girl, sure—well, he _was_ , but—

“You’re not listening.”

“I don’t know anything about art, Paul.”

“You do. You draw. You used to show me your comics. Everybody knows something about art. Everybody knows what they like about it.” Paul exhaled. “Look, you’ve gotta be getting tired of my place. I’ll take you home, meet you at the club tonight?”

“You really want to do that?”

“Yeah, of course I wanna go to the club. I’m not losing my whole life because of one groupie.”

“You’d be okay getting there by yourself?”

“I—yeah, I’d be okay.”

“Just take us back to your place.”

“I’d be fine, really—”

“No, take us both back.”

“What, you think I can’t drive over there by myself?”

“Maybe I like your company, Paul.”

Paul reached for his soda cup. The edge of his mouth was starting to twitch up.

“Yeah? Maybe I like yours.”

\--

By the time Paul pulled into the driveway, Gene was feeling a little sluggish. Two Big Macs, French fries, Coke, and most of Paul’s Sprite sat heavy on his stomach. He figured he’d take a nap on Paul’s couch or in his guest bedroom. Maybe play some records after, if that didn’t tear at Paul too much. Maybe get a quick dinner at a restaurant before heading to that nightclub—he almost thought he could talk Paul into it now.

Paul seemed to have about the same idea. He kicked off the tissue-stuffed heels and headed to his bedroom, leaving the door open. Gene watched him hang up all his purchases before doubling back to the door.

“I’m gonna sleep for a bit,” Paul called out. “You can turn the T.V. on if you wanna, I don’t care.”

Gene nodded, and Paul shut the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He shucked off his own shoes and stretched out on the orange velour couch in the living room, feeling weirdly nostalgic. The last time he’d really been at Paul’s place for more than an afternoon, Paul’s place had been his parents’ place. They’d be at the kitchen table, talking about records, bumming their way through Beatles songs on their acoustic guitars, while Paul’s baby niece squalled in the background. He’d never admit it, but he envied the noise in that apartment. The coiled-up tension Paul assured him lay just beneath the surface was something he never saw.

Paul had rarely gotten past the door of Gene’s house when his mother was around. His mother thought Paul was the Lampwick to his Pinocchio, eagerly leading Gene into a world of sin he’d already partaken in and a world of drugs he’d never touched. Paul’s ego had been sufficiently bruised by the assumption that he never tried to convince her otherwise. But Gene was sort of wondering now. If Paul had been a chick instead of a guy when they met, some mousey, bitchy friend-of-a-friend that played a little guitar and wanted to start a band, would his mother have liked him any better? Would Paul being a Jewish girl, if nothing else, have been enough to save him, her, whatever? Probably not.

Would he have gone after Paul then?

Probably.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. He didn’t plan on going after Paul now. They’d get this reversed soon enough, and once the tour started back again, he’d be up to his neck in Playboy Playmates and groupies, all way easier on the eyes and the wallet and the brain than a girl with a gap tooth and a terminal case of nerves. Yeah. Yeah.

He watched the cuckoo clock on the wall for a while, the one that Paul had gotten during their last Europe tour, waiting for the bird to pop out from the little hatch. But it, like everything else, seemed to be taking its time. Gene sighed, getting up from the couch and heading for the T.V.—what was on this time of day, anyway? _Gunsmoke_ reruns? The only thing that stopped him from finding out was a knock on the door.

He opened it without thinking, figuring it was the mailman delivering another of Paul’s occult books. Instead, he was met with Peter, wearing his version of casual—jeans, a vest, a pinstripe shirt, and a handful of necklaces—and a bewildered look.

“You’re _still_ over here?”

“How’d you know I was over here?”

“Ace told me. Where’s Paul?”

Shit.

“He’s not in right now.”

Peter looked him up and down suspiciously.

“Then are you gonna let me in?”

Despite himself, Gene’s glance went to the bedroom door almost on automatic. If he could get rid of Peter fast enough, Paul wouldn’t wake up.

“C’mon,” he said finally. Peter stalked in without hesitation. Gene had half-expected him to take a seat, but he didn’t, looming in the living room like he was certain he was being let out of the loop, without being told.

“Look, maybe Ace can write off all sorts of shit, but I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“He won’t see anybody, he won’t talk to anybody. He gets into fucking voodoo. He has you call up Ace for his psychic. Says you’ll make sure Paul calls me back and he doesn’t. But everything’s cool, everything’s great—”

“Pete—”

“Something’s the matter. Paul ain’t that kind of a nut! Now, either he lost his mind or you’re pulling one on him, but either way, something’s screwed-up here. I’m not leaving until I talk to him.”

“You’ll be waiting awhile.”

“I’ve got time.”

“Pete, really, he’s gonna be out until pretty late, don’t you think—”

“No, I don’t. I’m staying. You want me out, call the fucking cops. Get a real nice headline going—"

The bedroom door creaked open. Peter turned around immediately, Gene following suit. Paul was standing in the doorway, still in that floral dress from earlier that afternoon. Gene bit his lip.

“It’s you again!” Paul seemed to cave in on himself with every word out of Peter’s mouth, stepping back. “You—I see how this is!”

“Peter,” Gene started again, “Peter, listen, it isn’t—”

“You fucking _asshole_!” Peter grabbed Gene’s arms, oblivious to or maybe just not caring about the weight and height Gene had on him. “How the fuck could you _do_ that to him?!”

“You’ve got it wrong, I’m not—listen, Pete, I—”

“You’re fucking his girlfriend! Your best friend! Paulie’s fucking losing it and what do you do, you move in on his girl! Move in on his _house_! You motherfucking pig!” Pete advanced, or tried to. Gene twisted away his grip, grasping his wrists. Pete yanked himself free easily, stalking forward, forcing Gene back, closer and closer to the wall.

“Pete, calm down.”

“I won’t! This ain’t stupid band shit, Gene! This ain’t fucking solos! You got no right to do this!”

“Stop it.” It was Paul. Gene stared, stunned, as Paul stepped out of the doorway and into the living room, face pale. Peter was watching, too, looking disgusted. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”

“He wouldn’t?” Peter started to laugh. “Baby, he’s done it to every chick that got within three feet of him.”

“Pete, please.” Paul was biting his lip, breaths hard. “Pete, I’ve gotta tell you, listen—”

“Don’t,” Gene cut in, but Paul didn’t listen. God only knew why. Gene could tell Paul was scared as hell, even as he stepped between them, taking Peter’s arms. Even Peter had about an inch on him now. Surprisingly, he didn’t pull back. “Don’t do it, you don’t need to.”

“I’ve got to. Peter, I—” He let go of one of Peter’s arms, pulling down the right shoulder of his dress to expose his tattoo. “I’m... damn it, Peter, you know who I am.”

Peter’s face contorted.

“What the hell are you doing? What’s that supposed to prove?”

“You and me, w-we went on vacation together last year. To Hawaii.”

“Bullshit, I went with Lydia! I’ve never gone anywhere with _you_ in my life!”

Paul was staring at Peter like he’d just been slapped, but he kept his grip on Peter’s arm like a lifeline. Gene didn’t know how to help him. Part of him wanted to just go straight between the two of them and scream at Peter to get out of there, never mind the fallout on both sides after. But he didn’t. Instead he just watched as Peter tossed away Paul’s hold like it was nothing at all, shoving him back, hard enough Paul stumbled backwards, hitting his leg on the coffee table. Peter turned to Gene.

“You think you can do anybody any fucking way, don’t you? Fuck Paul, right? Fuck him and his crazy broad. That’s the way you are. Loyalty don’t even matter to you.”

“Peter—”

“Forget it. I’m out of here.” Peter stalked to the door, shouting as he yanked it open. “Don’t think I won’t tell him what you’ve done! I don’t give a shit if it splits us up!”


	6. i remember what she said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul's been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS' finances, Paul's comfort levels, and Gene's libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Paul and Gene, possibly the least punk of all rockers, head to CBGB....

Paul and Gene didn’t talk much for a long time after Peter left. Just sat in the living room half-watching T.V. Gene ordered a pizza about three or four hours later. Paul ate a single piece, drank two Tabs, then tried to head back to his room like a forlorn kid.

“Hey,” Gene said, taking his arm as he got up to leave.

“Gene, he didn’t know me. I’ve known him for five years and he didn’t have a clue.”

“You couldn’t have expected him to.” Gene swallowed. “He was trying to stick up for you.”

“I didn’t think he cared that much.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.”

“Paul…” Gene stared, shaking his head. “Paul, you two used to talk every damn night. It was obnoxious. You were like teenage girls.”

Paul snorted.

“Yeah, and I was the frontman of KISS, too, but look how that turned out.”

“You’re still the frontman,” Gene rattled out, irritably. “What’s with you? Did you really think Peter didn’t give a shit about you?”

“Right now, I wish he didn’t. He’s gonna be looking for me all over town.” Paul took a deep breath. “I blew it. I dunno why I even tried to tell him.”

“If we can get this reversed quickly enough, it won’t matter.”

“It will. Peter’ll be all hacked off and telling me about how my girlfriend was cheating, then I’ll have to figure out some lie—blow him off—”

“Don’t worry about that right now.”

“I’m tired of blowing Peter off. I can’t keep this up. If I run into anybody else I know while I’m like this, I’m gonna screw up.”

“Paul—”

“I won’t do it on purpose. But I’ll do it. And maybe nobody’ll figure out who I am, but they’ll know something’s wrong. And—”

“We’ll get you fixed before that’s an issue. I’ll—shit, I don’t know. I’ll make up an excuse for Peter.” What he could possibly tell him, well, Gene had no idea. With any luck in the world, Peter would get a few lines in him and forget all about this afternoon. With any luck. Right. “We might as well get ready for the club. You still want to go, right?”

Despite himself, Gene didn’t think Paul looked like he was in the shape to go. He had that steeled-up look about him that Gene had seen before, after phone conversations with newly-minted exes and conniving execs and, sometimes, after talking to his parents. He’d keep going, after, but it’d be bitterly. And bitterly was not how he wanted Paul approaching the nightclub. Especially not in the form he was in right now.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been like this for six days. I don’t want it to be seven.”

“Paul, are you—”

“I’m sure. I’m positive. Aren’t you?” Paul’s mouth twitched, as though he were about to say something else, then his lips pursed and he turned on his heel. He didn’t slam the door into his bedroom, but Gene could hear the sound of him locking it. It stung.

Gene changed clothes in the guest bedroom. He hadn’t tried too hard at the punk bit himself, and he knew he wasn’t convincing in just a leather jacket and a black tee, and a pair of plaid pants. Nearly half his purchases. Hopefully, the rest wouldn’t see the light of day. Paul’s guest bedroom was furnished with a weird scattering of Paul’s stuff—on the nightstand were a few notepads filled with his standard dick drawings and caricatures, and the mirrored dresser was loaded with tour knickknacks. Gene picked up a small rag doll some fan had made of Paul in full Starchild regalia, finding tubes of mascara and eyeliner underneath where the doll had lain.

Punk had started from glam, right? Might as well put on the eyeliner, at least. Paul could keep the mascara. Once Gene was satisfied, he stepped out and headed back to the living room, turning on the T.V. again while he waited. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes, and then Paul finally came out of the bedroom.

He’d teased his curls mercilessly, to the point they probably added back some of the height he’d lost, and the stiff smell of Aquanet emanated off of him. Red lipstick, eyeliner, faint patters of blush, just enough to make his high cheekbones stand out. The jean shorts and fishnets showed off his long legs to much greater effect than the dresses from earlier. He was finally wearing a bra, the shirt was tight against his chest, the fabric straining. Shit. _Shit._ If Paul didn’t still have a bit of that tense look from earlier, Gene would’ve complimented him. Would’ve teased him. Might have even been tempted to say he was beautiful. Instead, he just stared.

“Are you ready?” Paul asked tersely.

“Yeah.”

Once they got in the car, Paul turned on the radio, which surprised Gene. He hoped nothing of theirs would come on. Manfred Mann started up as Paul turned up the volume—that guy was like a groundhog, poking back in with another hit nearly ten years after his last—and Paul was tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He’d painted his nails, too, Gene noticed, the black lacquer reminding him suddenly of vinyl. Paul was half-humming, half-singing along under his breath, getting half the rhymes wrong. There’d always been a certain unevenness to his voice that hadn’t helped him, especially as the songs he wrote relied more and more heavily on screamingly high notes. But right now, Gene could tell Paul could hit those notes easily, if he’d let himself.

He wanted to tell him, stupidly, that he could still sing. He could still play guitar. But Gene stopped himself. Telling him that would be crappy. It would be like telling Paul to give up, that it wasn’t worth it to try to find the girl at all. And it would be selfish, too—selfish to Paul, to Peter, to Ace—everybody connected to KISS, even himself. And for what, so he could indulge himself like a teenage boy on a handful of glimpses? Stare at his best friend’s tits? Have a pretty little thing in bed he wasn’t even sleeping with, when he had hundreds of girls willing to give it up for him every night? It was a lousy trade-off. Anyway, he’d never have to consider it again after tonight. Paul would get the curse reversed and it would be done with.

Gene looked over, and realized Paul had gone quiet again, after the Chopsticks solo. Half the song was still left.

“Hey, keep going.”

“What for?”

“I like hearing you.”

“C’mon, Gene, you’ve been hearing me for years, you can’t really—it doesn’t even sound right, like this—”

“You sound just fine.”

“I’d be better singing along to Olivia Newton-John at this point,” Paul mumbled, turning down the volume. “‘Maybe I hang around here a little more than I should…’ God, could you _get_ any cheesier?”

“Face of an angel, heart of a degenerate.”

“Me or her?”

In response, Gene poked a finger against one of Paul’s fishnet-clad thighs. Paul surprised him by not shifting his leg immediately. Just took his right hand off the steering wheel, letting it rest on Gene’s for a few seconds. Then he reached over to change the radio station and the moment dissolved.

It wasn’t long before Paul pulled into a dingy lot not far from CBGC. A drizzle was starting up, the rain droplets like fat stars against the windshield. Paul didn’t bother to turn on the wipers.

“You might wanna park the car somewhere else,” Gene said finally.

The car’s interior was dim, but he could still catch Paul’s fragile grin.

“Is a Spanish Harlem schoolteacher telling me I’m in a bad part of town?”

“I don’t think punks like fancy cars.”

Paul laughed just a little, tossing Gene his own Aviator sunglasses before turning off the engine and getting out. Gene put them on, grabbing Paul by the arm almost as soon as he’d locked up the car. Paul threw him a questioning look, but didn’t argue.

They lined up around the block by the entrance, something Gene wasn’t used to doing. The rain was getting worse, Paul’s frothy curls giving way to pure frizz with every minute they stood out there. Gene’s wasn’t looking any better. The streetlamps and passing cars and buildings were all that lit up the line, but they didn’t seem to have been as far off-base with their outfits as Gene had figured. That, or latecomers like them were wannabes.

“I thought you said this place wasn’t as crowded as Studio 54.”

“It’s not. But I never had to wait outside to get in before. I just told Hilly and the bouncer I was—” Paul stopped short. The guy behind them was listening with interest. Paul leaned in against Gene’s arm abruptly. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“Wait, she got into Studio 54?” The guy snorted. “Who’d you have to flash your tits to, huh?”

Paul flinched but didn’t say anything.

“I think you owe my girlfriend an apology,” Gene snapped. He didn’t even think about it; the words splattered out like all the lousy come-ons he’d ever bothered with, forthright and obvious as ever. Beside him, Paul let out a nervous breath.

“Gene, c’mon, it’s fine.”

“It isn’t fine.”

“You’re not getting into a fight over this—”

The guy just rolled his eyes and started to laugh. He was around Gene’s height, but not build. More wiry. Probably drunk.

“You’re right, I’m not,” Gene said, and took off the sunglasses Paul had given him. The guy was still chuckling for a few seconds, before his eyes widened in hesitant recognition.

“H…hey, you can’t be… you can’t be _that_ Gene…”

As a tight, frozen smile spread its way across Paul’s face, he sunk his elbow square into Gene’s ribcage, just as Gene had been about to demonstrate his tongue. The sharp ache radiated through his side, and he barely managed to keep from doubling over, his slightly-strangled hiss of “what the hell was that for” probably going unheard by Paul. The damage had already been done, anyway. The guy backed off—practically shrunk off, honestly, forfeiting his place in line, but not before screaming—

“It’s Gene Simmons! He’s here!”

It was like Moses had parted the Red Sea, if the Red Sea were comprised of scrubby-looking punks and hangers-on. Every eye was on them. Gene put the sunglasses on, more for the sake of disappointing anyone with a camera than really trying to slip back into hiding. No point now. The crowd shifted, crowded toward them, everyone forgetting their places in line as they craned and crammed in for a better view, tried to run up to him, the words scattering like glitter.

“Is it really you?”

“It’s him, it has to be Gene! Gene, Gene, oh my God, I love you! I love you!”

“Can I have your autograph? I have a pen! I have a napkin, please, I—”

The turmoil lasted five minutes or more, easily. People kept trying to push past Paul, who eventually ended up leaning against Gene, with Gene wrapping an arm around his waist, just to keep from getting trampled. The heel of one of Paul’s boots was on top of his own—digging in unnecessarily hard, Gene thought—for the duration of impromptu autographs and stammered-out praise, occasional begs for a kiss. For once, Gene didn’t go for it. Maybe it was just hard to get in the mood to fool around with Paul grinding his heel into his toes. Maybe it just would’ve been lousy publicity, flirting while he already had a girl he’d brought with him. A couple lousy one-armed hugs were all any of the chicks got. He didn’t have time to really think on it for long, as the crowd started to disperse again, like reluctant scattershot, in the face of someone of higher status. At least, to the club patrons. Hilly Kristal, the owner himself, had come out onto the sidewalk to meet them, with an umbrella and two bouncers in tow.

“I haven’t heard this much noise out here since Paul Simon checked us out.” He stuck out his hand. Gene shook it. Hilly paused for a second, tilting his head, then offered his hand to Paul, too, who took it without a word. “Sorry I didn’t catch you sooner. C’mon back.”

They followed Hilly and the bodyguards to the front entrance of the club. Paul was still simmering.

“You asshole! That was so embarrassing!”

“We skipped the line, didn’t we?”

“I didn’t care about the line! They’ll be all over you now! How could you do that?”

“He hurt you. You’ve had enough of that today.” Gene swallowed, realizing suddenly that despite Paul’s complaining, Paul hadn’t dropped his arm from his waist yet. It was a little unwieldy, but Gene appreciated the brief brushes of Paul’s chest against his side as they walked. He wouldn’t be getting that if Paul was just holding his hand. “And your hair was getting destroyed.”

Paul’s free hand went to his scalp on irritated automatic. Hilly’s umbrella had come too late for him to resemble anything more punk than a waterlogged poodle.

“You don’t look like a Prell commercial yourself,” he retorted. Gene just laughed. One of the bouncers held the door open, and they walked in, instantly encased in the deafening sound of electric guitars and raspy, screaming vocals. Whoever CBGB had headlining tonight had clearly dragged in more than enough amps. The clubgoers, whose attention had probably turned to the front entrance as soon as Hilly and the bodyguards had first walked out, were staring and talking to each other against the din, not approaching them yet. They would soon. Gene was sure of that. Paul must have sensed it, too, from the way his grip on Gene’s waist tightened. “C’mon, Gene, you only let yourself get recognized ’cause you wanted to get laid, right?”

Gene didn’t answer. He didn’t know why he didn’t answer, any more than he knew why Paul kept pulling him in closer while yanking him away verbally. Maybe that wasn’t exclusive to Paul, either. Maybe.

“I don’t think anyone else is going to bother you now,” he sidestepped instead. “Let’s find that groupie.”


	7. she said "my, my, my, don't tell lies"

They didn’t waste time. Well, they didn’t waste much time. As expected, Gene was starting to get flocked again, even though they were trying to head straight to the bar. Gene didn’t really like to push past people, if he could help it—Big John was usually there to do it for him—and Paul, to his credit, wasn’t stomping on his foot now that they were in the club. He just kept shooting Gene pissed-off looks as the fans stammered at him and gave him napkins to sign.

It was hard to hear any real talk outside of the blare of the band. Gene was just scribbling on napkins, barely offering a nod to whatever the person in front of him was telling him. It wasn’t until they made it to one dingy corner that he could actually understand the conversation around him.

“Who’s he got with him?”

“She’s kinda pretty. I don’t recognize her.”

“Maybe she’s another singer? You think he’s trying to promote her?”

“Promote her? That’s so cute…”

He’d gotten used to people talking about him while he was in earshot, but not quite like this. He’d had starlets hanging off his arm before, dated some of them, even. The gossip was just to sell magazines; it hadn’t ever bothered him. But it was strange, being the only one who knew full well who was actually standing next to him. It was really strange.

He turned to tell Paul that, but Paul spoke before he could.

“God, I had no idea.”

“No idea about what?”

“About how much it has to suck dating any of us.” Paul let go of Gene’s waist, finally, going for his hand instead. His fingers curved around Gene’s with an odd abruptness, as if Paul was afraid Gene would pull his hand away if he lingered too long. “Never mind marrying. Lydia deserves a fucking medal. Jeanette, too.”

“You don’t get very public with dating.”

“Yeah, but… anything out and about. Banquets. Gala shit where you’ve gotta bring somebody. We end up shaking hands and taking photos and talking about business, and they’re… what’re the girls doing? Nothing. They have to just sit through it.”

Gene was distracted out of an immediate answer. Distracted by something even less comfortable than Paul’s legs in the fishnets or the tightness of his cotton tee. Distracted by the hand in his. Paul’s hand wasn’t really that soft or terribly small, but it fit well enough in his. How long had it been since he’d genuinely held hands with a girl? High school, or maybe sophomore year of college. By the time Wicked Lester rolled around, he’d long since stopped being that sentimental. And by the time KISS started, it was all carnal. It hadn’t felt empty, either; he hadn’t felt like he was really missing anything by jumping straight to the best part—

He could have sworn Paul gave his palm a brief squeeze, lifting him back into reality. Paul definitely was throwing him a raised eyebrow, corner of his mouth lifting up quizzically.

“Gene?”

“Oh. Are you having that bad a time?”

“Not when I think about how they’ve missed out on half the autographs.” Paul laughed dryly. “Come on. You’ve put me through enough tonight. You owe me.”

“What do I owe you?”

Paul started to smile.

“A drink.”

“Paul, that’s a terrible idea.”

“I’ve got to look like I’m at the bar for a reason, right?” Paul shrugged. “C’mon. I only want one.”

They settled in front of the bar, Paul gingerly leaning up with his elbows against the counter, looking for the bartender. Gene wished he’d thought to take notes during the visit to the psychic. What had she said again? Brown hair, freckles—no, that was the girl—what did the girl’s brother look like? He frowned, trying to remember. Paul nudged him.

“Would you hang back some? I wanna do this myself. I think it’ll turn out better if he doesn’t think I’m with you.”

“This whole club knows you’re with me.”

Half of him hoped Paul would at least look embarrassed at the intimation, but he didn’t. He just shrugged.

“Exclusively. Oh, there we go. That’s got to be him, there’s the combover.” Paul pointed at one of the guys behind the counter just briefly enough for Gene to see, before clearing his throat. “Hi, there! Could I get a Tom Collins?”

He hadn’t stopped to consider there might be more than one balding guy working there. The bartender blinked at him, but nodded, and started to mix the drink. Gene sighed and pulled out his wallet.

“Just one.”

“Please. There’s barely any alcohol in these.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m serious, too. Let me do something for myself here, would you? Trust me.”

Gene nearly argued him down. Paul getting drunk would be an absolute disaster. But looking at him, that frustrated tilt to the corners of his mouth, the consternation, he realized that wasn’t what Paul meant. For all that Paul had driven them everywhere, it had basically been on Gene’s insistence. He’d taken over the last couple of days. Not maliciously, but maybe that didn’t matter.

“Here you go, sweetheart,” the bartender said, pushing the drink towards Paul. Gene shoved a bill at him in return.

“Thanks.” Paul didn’t even taste it immediately. “Hey, doesn’t your sister come here?”

The bartender cocked his head.

“Who’s asking?”

“Paul Stanley’s asking.”

The bartender started to laugh. Something about the way his eyes crinkled up in amusement made Gene think of aluminum foil. Just the thinness of the skin, he supposed.

“No kidding? Carol really got him this time?”

“A couple times. Is she here tonight?” Paul took a sip of the cocktail, then slid a finger around the rim of the glass, almost absently. Gene thought he was laying it on too thick. Probably extra revenge for the scene outside the club, and the mobbing afterwards. Whatever. Maybe the saddest thing about it was that it wasn’t even a new gesture out of him. Any second now and he’d be putting that finger in his mouth. “He wants to talk to her.”

“Wants to talk to her, my ass.” He snorted. “How do you know her?”

Paul gestured vaguely at Gene. Gene ignored them both.

“Gotcha.” Whatever the bartender thought about rockstars and groupies and girlfriends, Gene didn’t care, and he didn’t divulge. “She stopped coming a few weeks ago. She’s been trying a bunch of clubs out.”

“Yeah? Like where?”

“She went to Hurrah for awhile, and the Ice Palace. I can’t keep up.”

Paul took another swallow of his cocktail. Licked his lips. Gene was trying not to make the attention he was paying too obvious—no matter how weirdly irritating the whole deal was, he didn’t want to screw this up, make the guy antsy—but he wasn’t sure how long Paul could go without sounding desperate, either.

“Do you have her number?”

The bartender snorted.

“She doesn’t stay in one place long enough for that.”

“Then where could I—”

“Ask Mary-Anne over there. The redhead in the jumpsuit. They run around together.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” He winked. “You got a name?”

“Uh—”

“Julia, c’mon,” Gene rattled out, taking his hand again and tugging him away from the bar. Paul’s offended expression could have cut diamonds.

\--

“You can’t call me by my sister’s name.”

“Well, I can’t call you Paul.”

“You can still call me Paulie, idiot.”

“Not when you say that’s who’s looking for her.”

“Then just don’t call me anything.” Paul shook his head and sipped at his cocktail again. “Julia, Jesus Christ…”

“Julia’s cute.”

“Julia is out of her mind.”

“It got you to react, that’s what’s important.” He never had nicknamed Paul anyway. It would’ve felt weird on his tongue. Four letters, one syllable, was still all that suited him. “You think we got the right bartender?”

“Almost positive.” Paul exhaled. “I was looking at him pretty hard.”

“I noticed.” Gene snorted.

“Not like—I still can’t remember the girl too great, but there’s sorta a family resemblance. Same complexions, I think. He had freckles, too, did you notice?”

“Not really. You told me to hang back.”

“Sorry.” Paul’s slowly-mounting excitement wasn’t as infectious as Gene had expected it to be. His smile was wider than it had been since he’d met him on the porch. Gene could almost see the little gears just under Paul’s bangs trying to pursue a conclusion. “Trying Hurrah wouldn’t be too bad as long as you kept my sunglasses on. Nobody I know is there. But I’m asking her friend first. Gene, if we can get a number, or if we can get the chick to take us to Carol… we’ve got it. We’ve got it.”

Gene wasn’t convinced. But Paul looked so damn hopeful that it was hard to want to ruin it for him. Finding particular girls was easier, paradoxically, at a concert, with plenty of roadies and bodyguards more than eager to help, just to snag a bit on the side. Doing all the legwork themselves, at clubs…

“C’mon, Gene. Let’s talk to her.”

Mary-Anne’s jumpsuit was denim and almost painfully unflattering. Paired with her cropped hair, she looked more like she belonged at a factory than at CBGB. Definitely didn’t come off as a groupie. Gene preferred his girls softer-looking than that.

Desperation, optimism, and half a cocktail were pushing Paul into more action than he’d readily got out of him this whole time. For how long, Gene didn’t know. Paul clasped his free hand in Gene’s again and they both headed for her. She was perched by the wall, nursing a drink of her own, talking aimlessly to a couple of guys.

“Mary-Anne, right?” Paul interrupted gracelessly, flashing a grin. “Nice to meet you.”

Mary-Anne offered up a perturbed look in response, one that faded when her eyes went from Paul to Gene.

“Hi.”

“You know Carol, yeah?”

God. Gene wasn’t any better at schmoozing than Paul was, but going right to it, with only Gene’s celebrity to even out the abruptness of the question… he just shook his head.

“Carol Jensen? Yeah. Do you want her?” Mary-Anne wasn’t looking at Paul when she said it. She was looking at Gene. “Don’t make her ask for you.”

“I’m not—” Paul bristled, but Gene cut him off.

“I don’t want her. It’s Paul Stanley that does.”

Gene’s concern that they’d gotten the wrong bartender, and the wrong friend, dissolved at the look on Mary-Anne’s face. It was amused in a way that made him uneasy.

“Did it work?”

“Did what work?”

“She hates that guy’s guts.” Mary-Anne took a long gulp of her drink, and shook her head. “I dunno why. I always thought you were supposed to be the worst one, what with all the pictures. But every time a KISS song comes on…” Mary-Anne clicked her tongue. “That’s it, baby.”

“Where’s she at now? He really wants to see her.”

“I don’t know. Last I heard, she was getting into Studio 54 almost every night.”

“Seriously?” Paul blurted. “How is she—”

“You know how.”

Paul faltered. Gene’s mind was in overdrive. Unconsciously, his hand tightened around Paul’s.

“Do you see her often? Can you… do you have her number? Or her address?” he asked suddenly. “Give me yours, too, while you’re at it. I’ll have all our albums sent signed.”

“Don’t bother with that.” Mary-Anne waved her hand. “Rockstars stopped owing me a long time ago. I’ll give you her address for free. You got a pen?”

Gene had lifted one on accident from an autograph-seeker earlier. He handed it over. She squinted in the club lights to scribble it down on a napkin. She was talking as she wrote.

“I used to really be in the scene a couple years back. Carol still thinks she’s gonna be the next Bebe or Pamela des Barres. I told her she’d be better off just being Carol.” She gave Gene the napkin. He passed it to Paul on automatic. “She can’t keep an apartment. I can’t promise you’ll get her.”

“I’ll take the chance. You’ve been very helpful.”

Mary-Anne shrugged.

“Sure, sure.” Another gulp of her drink. “You be good to her, okay?”

“To Carol?”

“No.” She looked at Paul hard, then shook her head. “You’re too sweet for all this bullshit. Don’t let him screw that up for you.”

\--

They left the club about an hour after that. Paul wanted to head off immediately, but Gene didn’t trust Paul with that half a cocktail in him, especially now that he was down several dozen pounds and a handful of inches. Couldn’t metabolize the alcohol as well. So they listened to the band—the Ramones, or so someone said—and Gene signed more autographs for an audience that was getting drunker by the minute.

“They’re from Queens,” Paul called out over the din at one point. God help him, he had actually started jumping around a bit once they’d gotten more than midway through their setlist. Every excitable hop sent his t-shirt gradually riding up, breasts still bouncing slightly with the movement, despite the bra. Unaware as hell. Gene had to resist the urge to tug down the hem for him.

“Who?”

“The band, they’re from Queens.”

“They’ve been on the same note for three songs straight!”

Paul started laughing.

“That’s punk.”

“That’s shit, Paul.”

“They love it, though. Can’t you tell they love it?”

Gene had to admit he could. He thought he knew what Paul meant now, about the bands at CBGB. How they had that exuberance about them that KISS was missing. That rawness. KISS used to be terrifying, in-your-face, but now… shit, they had just-add-water tattoos and foldout paper pistols included in their albums like they were Cracker Jack prizes. Looking at the Ramones ramming through another toneless song, he realized, a little morosely, that what they had would dissolve as soon as they hit it big, too. If they ever did.

“We better go before they finish up the set. I bet they’ll wanna talk to you.” Paul cocked his head. “You don’t wanna get mobbed on the way out. There’s another exit, I’ll show you.”

Gene checked his watch before nodding. Paul took his hand again and led him out of the club and back into the watery late evening. They got back to the parking lot without incident, and soon, Paul was headed straight to Carol’s apartment.

“I don’t think we’ll get her tonight, honestly,” Paul said. “Studio 54 doesn’t exactly turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”

“None of the discos do.”

“But we’ve still got a location. Her address is everything we need, really. If we can leave her a note, or… I bet she’s got roommates; if we can tell them, we can get in contact. We won’t have to hunt around in Studio 54 tomorrow. We can just go for it.”

“Have you thought about what you’re going to say to her?”

Paul shrugged.

“I’ll offer to pay her. I don’t know what else she could want.” Paul turned off on a corner. “I still don’t know what I did to her.”

“You fucked her.”

“Yeah, but… I wasn’t mean about it. I don’t even remember us getting together the first time. You think I got her pregnant?”

“Maybe. The psychic and Mary-Anne both said that she hated you.”

“But if I did, then, shit, couldn’t she have filed a paternity lawsuit? KISS would’ve just settled out of court, given her some hush money… she didn’t have to curse me over it.”

“Maybe you gave her VD.”

“But all you need for VD is antibiotics! How would she know it was me, anyway? Groupies’ll do anybody.”

“I don’t know, Paul.” The area was getting crummier with every block, the apartment complexes seeming almost despondent. More of New York City looked like that than he’d allowed himself to see in years. The filth, the wretchedness was squared away like an unruly child. It made Gene feel almost ashamed, as Paul pulled into a crammed parking lot about a block from the complex. Most of the other car models there were a decade old or more. Paul’s stood out painfully against them. “Are you really sure you want to go in?”

“I’m not scared.”

“Let me be scared for you. Mary-Anne was.”

“Mary-Anne thinks I’m some starry-eyed idiot that thinks you just wanna play patty-cake.” Paul snorted. “I’ll pass.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Paul pursed his lips but nodded.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Gene had Paul by the arm instead of the hand now as they walked down the block. It wasn’t deserted, if you knew where to look. Every bit of it derelict and abandoned. Gene was worried they’d get mugged—fuck, wouldn’t that be something for the papers, exactly the unmasking he didn’t need—all the way up until they entered the building, and even then, he wasn’t reassured. The floor was covered in trash and cigarette butts. The out-of-order sign on the elevator didn’t make him any happier.

“What floor was it again?”

Paul glanced at the napkin.

“Seventh.”

“Great.”

They took the stairs, Paul following behind Gene. Some of the handrails were nonexistent; all of them had gum stuck beneath them. Gene could smell marijuana smoke leaking from one of the apartments. Maybe more.

“This is a real crappy place, Gene,” Paul said after two or three flights. He wasn’t even panting yet.

“No kidding.”

“I mean… I never thought about it. Before. I never thought about what the girls go home to.” Paul swallowed. “It sounds so fucking naïve, right, but I really—I really assumed they were all… y’know, college girls, or something, not…”

He trailed off to nothing by the time they made it to her floor. Gene watched him check the napkin again, and then they headed to her door. 714.

“You sure you want to try?” Gene’s throat felt odd. “It’s almost two. If she’s here, you’ll just piss her off.”

“I should’ve waited until tomorrow,” Paul mumbled. “We’re already here. I might as well.”

He knocked on the door. Waited a couple seconds. One more knock. There was a rustling sound, then a few thumps. Footsteps. The door opened, just a bit, the door chain on top more visible in the fluorescent light than the face of the woman answering.

“The fuck are you doing? Jesus.”

“Hey, I—I’m sorry, I was looking for Carol, Carol Jensen, I thought that—” Paul glanced at Gene, but the woman cut him off before Gene could add anything more.

“Carol got out of here two weeks ago.”

“Do you know where she might’ve—”

Her eyes narrowed.

“No, and I don’t care. That little bitch stiffed us out of her share of the rent. Find her yourself.”


	8. "keep fidelity in your head"

Paul didn’t so much as shower after they got home. Just swiped the makeup remnants off his face with a washcloth, kicking his shoes to the side in his bedroom. Gene followed him in, and his stare on his back felt like a laserbeam pointed at his spine. All heat, melting him down to nothing. He felt weird. No, he felt horrible. Over the girl, over his chances, over everything.

“Do you need anything?”

Paul turned around when Gene said it. His throat was tightening up.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Do you want to talk?”

“I’m not really a chick, Gene, I don’t wanna fucking talk everything out.”

“All right, okay.” Gene actually looked away. “I’ll be in the guest bedroom.”

It should’ve felt better, watching Gene going away of his own volition. Should’ve made Paul felt less zeroed-in on. Freer. But free to do what? Lay in his bed the same way he’d done for nearly a week now? He’d still have to contend with Gene tomorrow. Gene wouldn’t let him go to Studio 54 alone. And he would be right not to. He’d be right. All the shit he’d taken for granted, going places without needing someone else there—he always wanted someone else there, he despised being alone, but that was different from _needing_. He’d hitchhiked the Catskills. Stayed over at barns and apartments and roach-infested hotel ballrooms, sleeping next to people he didn’t know, never fearing anything worse than lice for his trouble.

He couldn’t do that now. Couldn’t be cavalier. Gene had kept everything okay. Gene letting his identity slip meant he’d only gotten the one comment on his tits. Nobody had harassed him. He’d even had some fun watching the band, jumping around and remembering. But he knew, deep down, that wouldn’t have been the case otherwise. He knew, on his own, he’d have come off as just the target Mary-Anne thought he was.

He knew Gene had protected him before that, too. Years of it. Sitting next to him during interviews. Repeating questions. The few times he’d gotten loaded, Gene had taken care of him, kept him from ending up—well. But that hadn’t felt so bad. He hadn’t felt so useless then. Hadn’t felt like he was a load Gene was lugging around. A problem Gene was forced to resolve, because Paul couldn’t do a damn thing on his own. At this point, he was purely decorative. Fundamentally useless. Couldn’t even—

He’d only had one good night since it happened. Only one night where he really hadn’t felt too bad while lying in bed, if only for a bit. The memory of it, the slickness against his fingers, was shameful but comforting. He couldn’t be angry at Gene for looking at him the way he did, for getting weird, for getting jealous, not when he’d been trying to play with himself while he was lying beside him. Not when Gene was responsible for most of what little peace he’d ever felt. In the last week or before.

Something in his stomach twisted, and he got up, got something out of the dresser, and headed for the guest bedroom. Gene was there, looking through the stuff on his table. He’d only taken off the jacket and his shoes.

Paul took a sharp breath, and then he held up what he’d retrieved from the dresser. Another pair of pajama bottoms.

“You forgot these.”

“Oh.” Gene glanced at the pajamas, and then at Paul, holding his hand out for Paul to toss them over. Paul shook his head.

“These are… these are a new polyester blend, right. Real high-tech. Room-sensitive.”

“Room-sensitive?”

“Oh, yeah. If you put them on anywhere outside of my bedroom, you break out in hives.”

Gene’s mouth crooked up. He stepped over to where Paul was standing, taking the pajamas. One hand rested on Paul’s shoulder, just long enough for his heart to beat hard enough to hurt.

“That’s a pretty good incentive,” he said quietly. “Let’s go.”

\--

He’d changed into another pair of briefs and a t-shirt in the bathroom, and by the time he’d gotten out of there, Gene was in that pair of pajamas, already lying on his side of the bed. Climbing in beside him, he meant for everything to be normal. Regular. Having Gene next to him again was more than enough. He couldn’t be greedy. He wouldn’t try fooling around again.

Paul was good on his promise for about half an hour, according to the display on his alarm clock. By then, he could tell from Gene’s deep breathing that he’d fallen asleep. He knew he shouldn’t have seen that as carte blanche. He couldn’t defend himself, but he could make excuses, and he could try not to move around so much. The creaks the bed was making seemed tinier than the night before, as he slipped his hand beneath his boxers, finding and pressing his finger against that little bundle of nerves.

It still hurt. He rubbed against it, vying for friction, but it just felt sore. Dry. Paul took a couple measured breaths, then tried sliding that finger between his folds, slowly pushing it in deeper and deeper. It felt like his vagina was clamping down on it, like his finger was a foreign intruder it was trying to get rid of. It felt like a hell of a lot more than a finger, and it felt like he was shoving it in, even though he wasn’t. Completely dry. Paul bit his lip, trying to ignore the way his eyes were watering, and slid his finger out.

No good. His body was still as screwed-up as ever. He started to slip his hand out from beneath his boxers, the tips of his fingers just skirting the elastic, when he heard Gene shift and clear his throat.

“Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you—"

“Am I what?”

There was a long pause. Paul waited, wondering if Gene, who’d talk dirty to any woman between the ages of eighteen and seventy-eight, would have the nerve to call his best friend out on masturbating. It turned out he did.

“Touching yourself.”

“I’m trying.” A breath. “It’s not doing any good. It never fucking does.”

Maybe the darkness was making him bolder. Maybe he’d just given up, for now, on fronting around Gene. There wasn’t much point any more. Peter didn’t know him. He was banking on some random groupie ending up at the biggest nightclub in New York City for any hope of getting his body back. So what if her friend said she’d be there, that didn’t mean she’d show. Mary-Anne didn’t even have the right address for her. She could’ve taken off. That type didn’t stick around anywhere; they were like moths to porch lights, flitting from one to the next.

With odds like that, what did it matter if Gene knew he was trying to get off less than two feet from him? What did it matter? If he ended up stuck like this forever, Gene would probably stop seeing him as Paul entirely, anyway, just start viewing him as another chick he hadn’t yet banged but wanted to. He was already at least halfway there. He’d lose his identity to the one person that knew who he was. Paul swallowed thickly, waiting on Gene’s response, expecting a smart crack that he didn’t get.

“How’re you doing it?”

Paul strained to detect a come-on in Gene’s tone. He didn’t hear it. God, he almost sounded concerned.

“With my fingers, what do you think?”

He felt Gene’s arm loop around his waist. Paul stiffened slightly when he realized Gene’s hand was pushing between Paul’s stomach and the mattress, catching Paul’s right wrist, the one wormed beneath his boxers. Want shot straight through his spine, as promising as his first hit of marijuana.

“Gene, what’re you doing?”

He felt Gene tap the back of his hand, almost like a scolding tease. His cheeks burned.

“Don’t use your fingers.”

“What else is there to use?”

“You’re just sticking them in, aren’t you?”

Paul didn’t answer. How the hell Gene could know that, in the dark, was baffling. He could feel his heart begin to pump all the faster, and it felt like all the blood that wasn’t going to his face was headed straight for his groin. Gene’s fingers were only inches from it. He’d never gotten this close before, not when it counted.

“Just… just give it a shot with your hand, Paul.”

Gene’s grip on his wrist was loose. His thick fingers curled over the back of Paul’s hand, guiding it, pushing it down between his thighs, pressing the side of his palm. Paul took a sharp breath, body twitching at the feeling, hips starting to rock against the pressure of his hand. It felt better than trying to penetrate himself. It was almost feeling—no, it _was_ feeling—good. A little slickness was starting to spread against his palm and fingers, making it easier.

“You’re so stiff,” Gene said softly. He felt Gene’s other hand brush against the back of his head, which only made him tense up more, but then he realized Gene was running his fingers through the messy curls. Like he really was some chick from the Coop. No, worse. Like—like he was with a lover, like he was being sentimental. Paul made a mortifying sound, mostly muffled by the pillow, as his hips pushed a bit harder against his palm. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you relax in the whole time I’ve known you.”

Now wasn’t the time for Gene to be striking up a conversation. Paul answered him anyway, just to be contrary.

“You wanna see me relax?” He was panting against the pillow. Working himself up. Finally working himself up. Gene had stopped guiding his hand; he wasn’t so much as holding his wrist anymore, the back of Paul’s hand brushing up against his as he shifted the only real reminder. Somehow, Gene wasn’t indulging like Paul had assumed he always did. He wasn’t going for it. Trepidation was on Paul’s tongue as he summoned up a last sliver of bravado. “Then get your hand back here.”

The hand in his hair stopped all of a sudden. Even with Gene behind him, he could almost feel his stare on him, could very nearly picture the uncertain expression on his face.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

Gene’s fingers wrapped around his wrist again after some hesitation. Paul shook his head. Easier to face him when all he was really facing was the pillow. He twisted his hand free of Gene’s grip, then took Gene’s wrist himself, pushing it between his thighs.

Gene’s other hand, the one that had been playing with his hair, went for his shoulder, rolling him onto his side without much effort. Still not facing Gene, which was fine. Paul didn’t think he could right now. Gene’s body was pressed up against his before long—Gene had about two and a half inches on him under normal circumstances, but Paul had never really considered him a big guy, somehow, until right now. Just the insinuation of Gene’s weight at his back, and the press of his hard-on through the borrowed pajamas, rubbing against him every time he shifted, made Paul feel weirdly heady. Gene finally began to stroke, his larger palm and longer, thicker fingers rubbing him in a rhythm slower but so much more certain than the one Paul had been trying for himself. He was getting wet, really wet, shoving up against Gene’s palm. The side of Gene’s finger stroked along his clit, and he finally felt it, not that awful sore sensitivity from before, but something good, nerves white-hot and aching. Paul bit his lip to keep from crying out, breathing hard through his nose. He’d only been moving his hips before, mostly, but now his legs were twitching and writhing on their own; he could feel himself opening up, no more of that resistance. He thought he could take it now, a finger inside him, maybe two, he thought—

The pleasure crescendoed before he was ready for it. He didn’t have time to cover his mouth before the curses and cries spilled out of it. He moaned, throwing his head back against Gene’s shoulder, shivering as his orgasm faded, pushing against Gene’s hand as he tried to ride it out just a little longer. He could feel Gene chuckle against him at his effort, and a moment later, he could feel Gene slide his hand out from under his boxers. The dazed neediness of Paul’s afterglow had part of him wanting to snatch it back again.

“Gene,” he said, after he got his breath back, “Gene, I…”

Gene was still hard. He hadn’t even done anything about it but grind a little as he’d gotten Paul off. Paul swallowed, trying to gather up the guts to turn around. The slick wetness was still all across his fingers, and he wiped them on the sheets.

“Do you wanna—” Paul started, shakily, rolling over to face him, finally, though Gene wasn’t much more than an outline around the covers. “I can—if you want, I can—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Gene yawned. He reached over and tugged the elastic of Paul’s boxers, snapping it lightly against his stomach. “Night, Paul.”

\--

“I don’t know, Pete.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know! I told you what I saw!”

“Gene’s never even hit on Lydia or Jeanette. Not in all the time we’ve known him.”

“Yeah, that’s because they’re too much for him to handle,” Peter rattled out. “Paul doesn’t go for anyone with a brain in her skull. Just tits and ass.”

“Ain’t all he goes for, y’know,” Ace drawled idly, draining his glass of champagne. The alcohol had mellowed him out significantly. When Peter had first run into him half an hour ago, on Studio 54’s VIP floor, and rambled into what he’d seen at Paul’s house, Ace had looked utterly shattered just at the thought that Gene might homewreck. It had taken three shots and a line of coke to get that bewildered, crushed look off his face. Why Ace set such a store by Gene, Peter never could figure out. So Gene had saved Ace’s life on tour. Penicillin had saved Peter’s life as a kid and beyond, and he wasn’t exactly singing praises to Alexander Fleming for the trouble. It didn’t matter.

“You don’t gotta tell me what he goes for, Ace.”

“’M just saying. Maybe it’s not like that.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Yeah, but… maybe they’re swinging and too embarrassed to say so.”

“You think Paul would swing? The guy’s still sore at Bobby McAdams for banging his girlfriend!”

“Bobby said he didn’t—”

“’S not the point. Paul’s too jealous. He wouldn’t let Gene get near anything of his.”

“Ménage a trois?” The server refilled Ace’s glass almost on automatic. Ace tapped the rim with his finger.

“You still got the same problem in the end.” Peter paused. He was grateful he’d found Ace there—better to rage over the whole sorry business in person than over the phone—but pissed-off, too. Paul wasn’t at Studio 54 tonight like he’d hoped. He’d scoped out the whole dance floor and the VIP area, too. Even passed Catherine Deneuve by because he thought he’d gotten a glimpse of Paul wandering around, though it just turned out to be some girl with her boyfriend. “Anyway, I don’t buy it. Gene’s not queer enough to wanna see another man’s dick.”

Ace shrugged.

“I just can’t picture him screwing Paul’s girl unless they were all three going for it.” He took a long swig of the champagne. “What was she like, anyway?”

“Pretty.”

“What was she _like_ , man?”

Peter sipped his wine before answering.

“Couldn’t get a good read on her. She acted like she was scared or something. I told you, she yelled at me the first time I came by.”

“What’d she say?”

“‘He’s not here, Pete, go away.’”

“She called you Pete?”

“Yeah. I must’ve told her who I was.” Peter’s expression soured again. “Then that second time, she tried showing me her tattoo… girl’s a tramp, poor fucking Paulie…”

“She had a tattoo?” Ace perked up. “What was it?”

“Some rose on her arm, kind of like what Paul’s got. About this big.” Peter spread his index and thumb two inches or so apart. Ace tilted his head, and, weirdly, pushed his half-full glass of champagne aside.

“She say anything weird?”

“What’re you so stuck on her for, Ace?” The whole thing was more Gene’s fault than the chick’s, Peter felt. She was just tossing away a boyfriend, trading in one rockstar for another. Gene was incinerating eight years of friendship. Maybe Ace was trying to pin it on her to keep from having to admit that Gene was a bastard who didn’t care whose girlfriend he stuck it in. But—no, that didn’t quite seem to be where Ace was going with it. He could rarely follow Ace’s line of reasoning, drunk or sober, but he could at least tell where it wasn’t headed.

“’M not. She doesn’t add up right. What else did she tell you?”

“She made out like she went to Hawaii with me last year.” Peter reached for Ace’s drink, irritably. Ace slid it towards him without his customary grin. “I wouldn’t ever take a woman on vacation with me that wasn’t my wife. It was me and Lydia on that trip. That was it.”

Ace’s glazed brown eyes, always sleepy and strange, widened. Then he shook his head, limply wavy hair (without Bobby around, his hair was hopeless) shifting into his eyes with the movement. He shoved it back.

“You’re wrong.”

“What?”

“There were three of you on that trip, Cat. You and Lydia and Paul.”

“Paul brought a girl.” Peter paused. “No, wait, he didn’t. Him and that actress were on the outs.”

“They’re still on the outs,” Ace said. “Look, Petey, didja… you didn’t fool around with anyone else while Lydia was there, did you?”

“Fuck, no. That was our time.”

“Didn’t hit on anybody, either? What about Paul, did he—”

“Gimme a minute here, don’t just grill me like I’m on the fucking witness stand, Ace,” Peter grumbled. How the hell Ace could remain not only aware, but _bright_ , no matter the amount of booze and coke in his bloodstream, he didn’t know, but it was aggravating, at times like this. Peter wasn’t drunk yet, by his own reckoning, but he was close enough to it to not want to muddle through more than he had to. “Pretty sure he banged a girl that was working at the Polynesian Cultural Center.”

“That’s a start.”

“It ain’t a start. That girl was Samoan.”

“Oh.” Ace frowned. “Anyone else?”

“I don’t really remember.”

“No one that looked like the girl you saw?”

“No. Nobody.”

Ace reached for the champagne glass he’d pushed towards Peter earlier, drained it, and then shook his head.

“You doing anything tomorrow night, Petey?”

“No—”

“Okay.” Ace flipped the glass over. “Hear me out, man. I’ve got an idea.”


	9. my, my, my, don't tell lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul's been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS' finances, Paul's comfort levels, and Gene's libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Gene and Paul eat doughnuts in the morning after, and Paul finally checks his answering machine.

Gene woke up late the next morning to Paul’s head resting against his chest. Paul’s right hand was dipped underneath his boxers again in his sleep—Gene bit back a rueful grin at that, getting up out of bed as carefully as possible, trying not to wake him up. He got dressed—on top of the CBGB attire, he’d bought a regular pair of jeans and a collared shirt at the boutique, among a few other things—and left the room, digging around the main area of Paul’s house until he found the phone book. From there, he dialed a bakery. They didn’t deliver, of course—but they would for Gene Simmons.

Less than half an hour later, he returned to Paul’s bedroom with a white paper box and a glass of milk.

“Morning, Paul.”

Paul grunted a bit, kicking off the covers.

“Morning.”

“Don’t get up. I got you breakfast in bed.”

“You—” Paul started, then shook his head, reaching over the bed for his wallet on the nightstand. His shirt hiked up with the movement, exposing one bare hip and a few small moles. The boxers, as always, were barely hanging on. Might’ve held up a little better if the drawstrings weren’t untied. “Lemme pay you back. You’ve been buying all my meals lately.”

“Don’t say that until you open the box.”

Paul did. There were only four regular glazed doughnuts left. Sprinkles and scrapes of chocolate against the corners and bottom of the box were the only intimations of the rest.

“Gene! Did you—were there twelve in—”

“ _Were_ is past tense.”

“Gene!”

“It’ll be fine. We’ll be back on tour in a few weeks. I’ll lose all that weight jumping around onstage.”

“If you don’t gain even more,” Paul grumbled, eying Gene up and down, shaking his head. He hadn’t gotten out of bed, as requested. He reached for the box and set it on his lap, taking a doughnut and carefully leaning over the open box as he ate it, to keep any bits of sugar off the covers. Gene climbed into bed beside him. “You… you really think we’ll be back?”

“We’ll be back.”

“But what about that groupie?”

Gene reached over for a ninth doughnut. Paul swatted his hand away irritably.

“Easy. We’ll call up Studio 54 beforehand. Have the owner tell all the doormen to be on the lookout for her, give them her name and description. We tell them to get her straight to the VIP lounge as soon as they see her, because Paul Stanley wants her.”

“That makes me sound like a creep.” Paul dragged a finger down the inside edge of the box, gathering up the chocolate on his finger. He licked it off absentmindedly. “And then the doorman tries to take her directly to me, only he can’t find me because he’s not looking for—"

“Okay, how about this, we say you and I want her, but you’re too shy, so if they’ll just take her to me instead, that’ll be perfect.”

“Too shy, my ass,” Paul snorted. “Gene, you’re the one that won’t do threesomes.”

“You all act like it’s a badge of shame.”

“It kind of is.” Paul took the last bite of his doughnut, and reached for another. “You take six or seven up to your room and you only make it with one of them at a time.”

“Who told you that?”

“Peter.”

“How would he know?”

Paul shrugged.

“He said you invited him up once. He thought you were trying to, y’know, offer up an orgy, and—”

Gene could feel his face start to flush.

“He’s making shit up. I was just trying to hide him from Lydia. He grabbed a girl and spent the whole time in the bathroom’s Jacuzzi.”

“Uh-huh.” Paul’s eyes were gleaming a little. “Why don’t you, though?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Have orgies. Or threesomes. Whatever.”

“It’s too impersonal.”

“Too impersonal? I thought you were just too square.”

“I’m not square, it’s just a preference,” Gene protested, but Paul didn’t seem like he’d let it go, not unless he turned it on him. “Well, why do you do it?”

“I don’t. I’ve never done an orgy.”

“Really?” Gene tilted his head. That jarred feeling was back, the same one he’d gotten when they’d been in the car and Paul had casually thrown out Warhol’s name. The same one he’d gotten when Paul had tried to come on to that bartender. There was just… just such a disturbing disconnect between the sight and sound of the chick sitting next to him on the bed, and the knowledge of who she actually was. A girl that didn’t act or talk much like a girl at all, one on one—well, why the hell should he? Paul’d said it last night; he wasn’t actually a chick. Not in any way but physical. It was like sticking a Mr. Goodbar in a Hershey’s wrapper, except… no, no, that… that wasn’t quite it, either.

Gene wasn’t really getting rattled. Not over Paul. Not even if he had gotten Paul off the night before. Actually felt him clench up against his hand, felt his whole body just tighten up those seconds before release. Paul’s legs writhing and shifting against the mattress with every movement of his hand, those sharp, high sounds and rambling curses as he got closer and closer—someone, maybe Sweet Connie, maybe Peter, had told him one that Paul screamed through sex like he thought it was a private concert, and he’d never quite believed it, not until he’d heard him.

Last night shouldn’t have been as good as it was. He hadn’t seen a damn thing in the dark. He hadn’t even gotten off. It ought to have felt like a wasted night, or at the very least, like he’d only done Paul a favor. But—it didn’t. It didn’t feel like that at all. Paul had seemed to fit against him, soft and warm. There was something vulnerable to him, something that had been there as long as Gene had known him and probably longer. Something he’d never been close enough to touch before.

He'd touched plenty last night, he thought dryly. He didn’t need to kid himself into feeling like he needed more. Paul was still looking at him, dark moppetish eyes fixed on his face. What had Paul even been talking about? Orgies. He’d been sitting on the bed, eating doughnuts, and talking about fucking orgies.

“I thought you’d like having a bigger audience.”

“God, no. Orgies are too much pressure, unless you’re high off your ass.” Paul pushed back his hair with his free hand. He was making steadier progress on the doughnuts than Gene had really expected out of him. The second was more than halfway gone already. “But threesomes… threesomes are nice.”

Gene rolled his eyes. Paul didn’t seem to notice, poking another bite of the doughnut into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before he continued. There were bits of icing sugar smeared on his face.

“Back when me and Peter’d share a room, early on… we’d be lucky to bring one girl back after the show. If we had a threesome, we wouldn’t fight over her.” Paul laughed. “And she’d think she was getting the real rockstar experience. It sounds stupid, but it worked. I kind of think that…”

“What?”

“It gets you to let your guard down, I dunno. Or it used to. You never let me talk about it before.”

“You didn’t have tits before.”

“Is that it?”

Instead of answering, Gene tried again for another doughnut. Paul batted his hand back in response, but this time, Gene touched his wrist. Paul didn’t pull his hand away, just looked at him, almost expectantly.

“Gene?”

“You’ve got icing on your face.”

“Oh.” Paul wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “Did I get it?”

“No.”

“Now?”

Gene shook his head and leaned in, just to see what he’d do. Paul, less oblivious than Gene had hoped, just stuck the remainder of the doughnut in Gene’s open mouth.

\--

Paul spent some time later that morning playing his answering machine messages. He’d exhausted the tape over the last week of not picking up the phone, apparently. He didn’t ask Gene to leave when he played the messages, which surprised him, just let the tape keep running while Gene finished off the milk. The box of doughnuts ended up on top of the dresser as Paul made up the bed. Gene watched him do it, leaning up against the wall.

His own messages. Bill’s. Sean’s. A couple from Peter, one from Ace, a couple from various promoters. One from Paul’s therapist. Paul didn’t really react with anything but resignation to the whole slew, not until a little girl’s voice piped in from the machine.

“Hi, Paul! This is Ericka!”

Paul’s head jerked up, and he stopped making up the bed, hand frozen on the sheet. The message continued.

“I got the souvenirs you sent! And the letter! Honey says you’re supposed to come visit before you go on tour!”

“Honey?” Gene asked, but Paul didn’t respond. He was staring at the answering machine.

“I wish you could visit more. I tell everybody at school you’re my brother, but they always say I’m lying. We should take pictures! Could you take pictures with me and the makeup? Then… then I’d have proof!” A pause. “I have to eat dinner now. I love you! Call me back!”

Paul stopped the machine after the click of the receiver.

“Honey’s my dad,” he said finally. “It’s what my mom calls him, so I guess it stuck.”

“Ericka thinks you’re her brother?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t know about Julia.” Paul’s tongue was peeking out from beneath his pursed lips. His jaw was tensed and tight. “Some of the assholes doing our publicity wanna let that story out. Use a seven-year-old kid to make me out to be some big hero of an uncle. All I do is pay her private school tuition and visit three times a year.”

“Paul—”

“I don’t want that for her. I don’t want her finding out like that.” He straightened the sheet and started on the comforter on top of it next, pulling it back into place. “Julia just… well, you remember. She dumped Ericka on my parents like… like she didn’t give a fuck.”

Gene did remember, vaguely. He remembered Paul rambling about the baby, rambling about how his dad was on the warpath with him, threatening to throw him out of the house if he dared knock a girl up. He remembered telling Paul not to get worked up over it. Paul had said something acrid (“please, your mom wouldn’t kick you out if you assassinated Nixon”) and that had been the end of it.

He hadn’t really thought about Paul’s family over the last three days. He’d thought about KISS and, of course, he’d thought about Paul, but he hadn’t considered much past that. A little shame was tugging in from somewhere in his gut. Paul would lose out on a lot more than his money if he stayed like this. He’d lose out on his relationship with his niece.

“You care about her. Your parents care about her. That’s what matters.” Gene paused. “She’s wanted. She knows that.”

“Yeah.” Paul looked away. “I’ll write her a letter.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Gene, I’m not gonna go quiet on her. That poor kid’s been waiting for months just to—”

“You won’t have to go quiet on her.” Gene moved from his spot against the wall, reaching over and retrieving a pillow from the floor. Guilt was propelling him to do things he’d never bothered with in his life. Up to and including helping make up the bed. “Tonight’s the night we get you back to normal.”

“That’s what we were hoping yesterday.”

“This time yesterday, we only had a description. Right now we’ve got her name and the nightclub.”

“Gene, there’s—there’s just no guarantee—I… I’ve gotta be realistic here.” Paul picked at his t-shirt. “Maybe we get her today, or tomorrow, or next week. Maybe we don’t. But I can’t keep setting myself up every day like… like some kid waiting on a package. It’s too much disappointment.”

A thought occurred to Gene, out of nowhere. It was so stupid, so appallingly obvious, that he almost didn’t want to give it voice. He put the pillow on the bed, then reached over, tugging Paul’s sleeve. Paul turned around to face him, slowly.

“Paul, listen. Why do you think Carol’s started to go to Studio 54?”

“Because she’s a groupie. Because that’s where the biggest names are.”

Gene stuck a finger against Paul’s mouth on weird impulse. His lips were dry and slightly chapped. Paul looked a little startled, but he didn't flush or back off.

“Wrong. She’s there because she thinks you’ll be there.”

Paul flicked Gene’s finger away.

“That’s a gamble.”

“It’s a damn good gamble. What do you bet she doesn’t even know if what she did worked? You’ve got to think—what does she know about you, really?”

“She knows I had a seven-inch—”

“She knows you like nightclubs and discotheques. Those are the only places outside of a concert she’d ever see you.”

“Mary-Anne asked if it worked.” Paul said it slowly. Realization was dawning on his face, immediate as an onstage spotlight. “Remember? She knew Carol had done something to me. I don’t think she knew what, but—"

“Exactly.”

“Carol wants to see me.”

“Yeah.”

“Not half as much as I wanna see her.” Paul grabbed the phone, handing it to Gene, then scrambled around in the nightstand.

“What are you looking for?”

“My address book.”

“Who am I calling here?”

“Steve Rubell. The guy that owns Studio 54.” Paul was yanking everything from spare film canisters to pocket dictionaries to a couple tubes of K-Y jelly out of the nightstand in a bid for his address book. “Tell him I don’t care if she’s on Neil Diamond’s arm when she comes in. Tell him—just like you said earlier. Tell him you and me both want her in the VIP lounge tonight.”


	10. when you're done you should go to bed

The call to Steve Rubell (or rather, his secretary—Steve, apparently, didn’t get up any earlier than two in the afternoon) wasn’t the only one Gene made that morning. At Paul’s urging, Gene called to have clothes sent over from his house, and a handful of standard accessories. He felt a little bare wearing only his skull ring. Paul kept attempting to advise him as he tried to piece together an image- and Studio 54-suitable outfit from memory of what was in his closets. In the end he just settled on an outfit comprised almost entirely out of black leather. A vague step up from his CBGB outfit, at least.

“You think I should go to another boutique?” Paul asked as soon as he’d hung up. He’d changed into jeans and a low-cut, frilly purple blouse, more of yesterday’s purchases. He kept fiddling with the floppy bow in the front, untying and retying it as he spoke, moving it to the side, then the middle. Sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, he looked like a nervous kid, tapping one bare foot against the floor.

“Not unless you want to.”

“I dunno. Nothing I have is going to pass muster.”

“Didn’t you buy a dress?”

Paul grimaced.

“It wasn’t anything special. Do you know how many people they don’t let in to Studio 54, just because of the outfit?”

“Paul, you know we’ll get in.”

“Yeah, we’ll get in, but the press is out there every night. There’s gonna be pictures, Gene.”

Gene hesitated. Except for when they’d found Carol’s old apartment, Paul’s mood seemed to improve, at least a little, whenever they’d ventured out. He hadn’t seemed to mind getting clothes that much—sure, he’d taken forever about it, but that wasn’t abnormal—and he hadn’t picked out sackcloth and ashes for himself, either. Minus the bow, the blouse was something Paul probably would’ve worn in his regular body, even, except Gene would’ve been greeted with a hell of a lot of chest hair instead of cleavage.

“I think what you’ve got on is probably fine.”

“You haven’t been over there. It’s picky as hell.”

“We’re in KISS, we’ll get in.”

“I don’t want to just get in! I—” Paul shook his head. “God, you don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?”

“There’s getting in and then there’s looking _good_ , Gene. Looking like you belong.”

Gene tilted his head.

“Do you really want to belong at Studio 54?” Gene had heard, from admittedly irreputable sources, that Rubell would hand out coke at the VIP entrance like it was balloons at the carnival. The basement was supposed to hold nothing but orgies. Yeah, Paul liked to dance, and he liked to rub elbows with people outside of KISS’ questionable echelon, but he wasn’t a drug addict, and he wasn’t a heavy sex fiend. Two things that were practically prerequisites for that place.

“I wanna belong somewhere,” Paul said abruptly, and then shook his head, as though he hadn’t really realized he was speaking out loud. “I—what I mean is, I don’t wanna come off like I’m some chick you yanked off the front row ’cause she showed you her tits.”

“You don’t come that cheap, Paul.”

“Oh, shut up. You get it, right? You get it.”

Gene kind of got it. The closest he could come was envisioning going onstage without the makeup. The one protective shield between fantasy and reality. A funhouse mirror it’d be suicide to step away from. It wasn’t that they were shittier musicians without a bunch of paint and leather on, any more than Clark Kent stopped being faster than a speeding bullet once he put on his glasses—but it ruined the magic. Flattened the ego.

He’d known Paul long enough to realize Paul’s ego had been flattened since he’d started grammar school, if not before. Album sales and Billboard climbing never seemed to boost it for long. Being stuck in the wrong body for a week had to have killed whatever was left.

“If you wanna get another outfit, then we’ll get you another outfit.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

\--

Three hours later, Paul had another outfit. Gene had half-hoped Paul would let him into the dressing room—why the hell he’d hoped that when Paul kept changing clothes in the bathroom even at home, he didn’t know, but he was still disappointed. Paul had stopped at a slightly more upscale place than yesterday, to Gene’s distress, and sorted through the dresses with an almost disturbing intenseness. In the end, he’d only picked out a flowy, light blue one that probably hung to about mid-calf (Paul hadn’t let him see it on), with draped short sleeves, another bra, and another pair of heels. He hadn’t gotten any accessories to go along with it.

But what surprised Gene was that he didn’t immediately head for the checkout counter. Instead, he kept lingering in the lingerie and nightwear section. Gene would have tried not to comment, except he’d had nothing to do but follow Paul around the boutique like the beleaguered boyfriend he wasn’t.

“Do you want a nightie?” He picked a gauzy, lacey pink number off the rack. Paul’s face contorted.

“That’s a teddy.”

“A what?”

“A teddy. It snaps up at the crotch. See?” Paul pointed. Gene was more distracted by the garters dangling off the sides, flicking at them.

“I thought they were all nighties.”

Paul shook his head. He took a short lavender babydoll-style nightgown off the rack, running a hand down the silky material, mouth pursed like he was actually considering it.

“Do you like this stuff?”

“Me?” Gene looked up, evasively, from where he’d been tugging at the garters. Too loaded a question for a completely honest response. “I like what’s underneath it.”

Paul bit his lip and hung the lingerie back up.

“You wanna get it?” Not that Gene was against it, but Paul had seemed like he was dead-set on wearing t-shirts and boxers to bed for the entire duration of the curse, or at least as long as Gene shared a bed with him. Last night couldn’t have made that much of an impression on him. “Go ahead, if you want.”

“I owe you over a hundred bucks as it is.”

“Pay me back with a peepshow.”

“Oh, screw you.” But he picked the nightgown up again anyway. “It’s just insurance.”

“Insurance for what?”

“For you sticking around in case we don’t find Carol tonight.”

“You don’t need insurance for that. I’m not going anywhere.” Gene reached over, tugging at a lock of Paul’s hair on impulse. “Not that I’m talking you out of it.”

Paul snorted and pushed his hand away, but he was smiling. Just a little. It shouldn’t have been distracting—it shouldn’t have been more distracting than the thought of Paul as he was right now, in nothing but a short, spaghetti-strap nightgown—but in an odd way, it was. Paul wasn’t much of a crier, and he wasn’t much of a smiler, not even for magazines and interviews. But when he did, it gave a warm, almost sweet cast to his features. Gene tried to dismiss the thought; he knew he’d been with prettier women, easier, prettier women, but the fact remained. Paul’s smile had edged into a less innocent territory in the half-second Gene had spent musing, anyway.

“I knew there had to be some way to keep you from looking at the price tags,” he said, handing Gene his whole stack of purchases.

\-- 

Last night, when Ace had said he had a plan, he had cocaine and booze bubbling around in his strangely-resilient system. When Peter had believed him, he’d been drunk or close to it.

Now, parked in front of Paul’s place after over an hour of driving, Peter had to admit Ace’s plan would’ve been great for getting answers—if anyone had actually been there. Unfortunately, that didn’t appear to be the case once they got in the driveway.

“His car’s gone. I don’t think anyone’s over.” Despite himself, Peter got out of the car. Ace reached for the drink holder, like he’d forgotten he hadn’t brought a beer for the road, before he cut off the engine and followed him out. They stepped up to Paul’s front porch together, ringing the doorbell and knocking on the door.

The first time Peter had headed over there, the girl had been really quick to open up. Gene, too. Peter let out a frustrated breath, waiting a few more seconds before knocking harder. Nothing. He could see through the glass on the door that a couple of the lights were on in the house, but that didn’t mean much. Paul would leave a light on all day, even in his hotel room.

No, nobody was here. The cardboard box resting just by the door proved it. Paul’s mail, evidently. Peter picked it up, frowning at the lack of address or postage. Hopefully none of the neighbors had found out who he was and dropped off weird fan crap. He set the box down before turning to Ace.

“Why the hell did I let you talk me into this? It’s not getting us anywhere!”

Ace just shrugged.

“He’s gotta come home sometime.”

“Sometime could be six hours from now! At least I get paid for waiting around on tour!”

“Petey…”

Ace’s idle nonchalance was something Peter appreciated most of the time, as stark a contrast as it was to Paul and Gene’s control freak tendencies. Ace seemed like he coasted through life, with nothing but alcohol, his Les Paul, and weird stories about aliens propelling him. Peter had let himself get dragged into Ace’s weird, wild hairs sometimes, but usually they were at least exciting. Standing in front of Paul’s house and hoping he’d show back up was about as thrilling as three KISS board meetings in a row.

“You know what the smart thing would’ve been, Ace?”

“Calling Paul today? I tried.”

“No.”

“Calling Bill?”

“No.”

“Calling Hilsen?”

“Fuck, no. Calling the cops.”

Ace blinked, resting an elbow and a hand against the door as he leaned against it.

“The cops? That’s pretty fucking extreme.”

“For one of those—I don’t know. They come to the house and check on you if your husband’s a wife-beater.”

Ace tilted his head.

“Social workers? You wanna get a social worker for Paul?”

“ _No!_ No, that’s not it!”

“I bet they’d find joints in there. No good. It’d be like what’s happening to Keith Richards. One big fucking disaster.” Ace ran a hand through his hair. Looking at him, Peter wasn’t sure if he’d showered after last night. Not that Ace was fantastic about hygiene, but… shit, come to think of it, he’d even missed a few spots shaving. He and Ace both would try and ease into pieces of the tour routine before it swallowed them up. All the annoying shit, like shaving everything. Like getting haircuts (the hair dye was reserved for a couple days before) and wandering around in heels again for awhile, like some bizarre version of a wrestler’s training regimen. But Ace looked a bit unkempt. Had Gene’s behavior affected Ace that badly? Strange.

“Doubt it. Paul doesn’t toke up by himself.” Peter groaned. “Y’know what? Forget it. Forget it. If no one shows up in another ten minutes, we’re just going home.”

“You gotta be patient.”

“I’ve _been_ patient! I’ve been over twice! You’re the one that hasn’t done anything until now! You said you had a plan—”

“You ain’t gonna like the rest of the plan.”

“C’mon, there _is_ no rest of the plan! We’re staking out his house and wasting our time, that’s all this is!”

Ace shifted from where he was leaning against the door, standing up fully, and dug a hand in his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. Peter watched, expecting him to—what, did he have a key to Paul’s?—show him something important, but instead all he did was pull out a credit card and hold it out in front of Peter.

“What’s this for?”

“Don’t leave home without it. Right, Pete?” Ace laughed a little, then leaned over, wedging the card between the space between the door and the lock. Peter stared.

“Come the fuck on, that’s breaking and entering! We can’t pull this shit!”

Ace slid the card back out, frowning, and reangled it. He kept talking, as affably as ever, as he pushed it back in, bending the thin plastic as he worked it into the gap.

“We’ve gotta find out what’s going on somehow, right? A P.I. would do the same thing.”

“Yeah, but you’re not a fucking P.I.!”

“Nope.” He seemed like he was making headway. The door was actually starting to yield a bit. Christ. “But if you’re right about Gene, he’s screwed up everything for everybody.”

“You and your ifs. I know I’m right about him! Why do you keep defending—”

“’Cause it’s weird, Peter! Gene wouldn’t hurt him like that. There’s something we’re missing!”

Peter opened his mouth to answer, stopped only by the sound of a car pulling up to the driveway. A car he recognized as Paul’s. The driver cut off the engine, and as soon as she got out, he recognized her, too—the girl from before. Paul’s girl, the one Gene had stolen—and then Gene got out of the passenger’s side. Peter jerked at Ace’s sleeve, and Ace turned around, not bothering to pull the card out from between the door and the slat, expression as bland and mild as ever at the sight, as the girl scrambled out to the front porch like a bat straight out of hell, shouting something very, very strange.

“You bastards! You’re breaking into my fucking house!”


	11. don't say hi like a spider to a fly

There were a few things Gene hadn’t exactly thought he’d live to see. One was the fall of Communism. One was decent oil prices. One was Paul Stanley attempting to shove Ace Frehley bodily into the doorframe.

At least, that was what it looked like Paul was trying to do. Gene hadn’t gotten out of the car nearly fast enough to catch it all, hampered by the car lock he’d thoughtlessly left on and the milkshake he’d been in the middle of (they’d picked up Dairy Queen on the way back from the boutique). By the time Gene got to the front yard, Paul had Ace by the shoulders and was screaming obscenities.

By the time Gene got to the front porch, Peter had yanked Paul away from Ace and had one of his arms locked behind his back. Paul was trying to trip Peter, one foot twisting behind Peter’s ankle as he leaned back against him. Ace stepped forward, trying to pull them both apart, only Paul’s fist flung out and nearly connected with his jaw. Peter, meanwhile, was still screaming.

“You crazy bitch! This isn’t your house! This is his house!”

“It’s my goddamn house!”

“You got some nerve! You think ’cause you fucked the guy you’ve got a right to his place?!”

“Pete, let go of the girl! C’mon and calm down! Both of you!” Ace yelled out.

“Ace, you lousy son of a bitch!”

“Hey, hey, we barely know each other—”

“ _Stop it!_ ”

Gene wrenched away Peter’s grip on Paul’s arm, relying more on weight and suddenness than strength. Peter immediately went for Gene instead—Peter was a much smaller guy, but meaner and still more savvy, for all that it had been years since he’d been in a fight—but Gene grabbed him before he could. Paul just barreled over to Ace as soon as he was free, pinning him against the door, standing on his foot to keep him in place. Ace looked like he was torn between being bewildered and bursting into laughter.

Peter didn’t fight off the grip much, which surprised Gene. Maybe even he realized that a skull fracture on the cement front porch would be like setting fire to KISS’ ticket sales. Gene held him there, barking at Paul as he did.

“Leave Ace alone!”

“Leave Ace alone? His credit card’s in my fucking door!”

“Let him alone! Let him alone right now.”

“ _Gene!_ ”

Paul hesitated, then backed off from Ace. As soon as he was halfway sure Paul wouldn’t jump back on him, Gene let go of Peter, who whirled on both of them.

“We’re not trying to steal Paul’s shit! We just wanna know what the fuck is going on here!”

“We—” Gene started, only to be interrupted by Ace.

“Where’s Paul at?” he said quietly. Gene’s head snapped towards Paul, praying he’d read the look in his eyes. Praying he’d realize he couldn’t blow it. Peter already hadn’t believed him once. There was no way—there was no sense in trying again.

But that wasn’t all of it. Even if somehow Ace and Peter believed Paul, what good could they do, anyway? The two of them would just screw everything up worse. It wasn’t a thought borne out of practicality; it was self-righteous, maybe even selfish. Part of Gene wanted to keep being the only one who knew.

It turned out that it didn’t matter what Gene wanted. Paul just glared back, snapping out his answer before Gene could even try to stop him.

“I’m right here, you idiot!”

Ace stiffened up, eyes widening slightly.

“What?”

“I’m right here! I’m Paul!” Paul waved his hands in the air in front of him, up and down from his head to his chest.

“Don’t—”

“Shut _up_ , Gene! I can handle this!”

“You—you’re crazy,” Peter snapped. “That’s the stupidest bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

In contrast, Ace looked almost nervous. It was an out of place expression on his face. He glanced around, from Gene to Paul to Peter, before finally settling back on Paul, studying his face hard enough that Paul broke eye contact. Ace exhaled.

“You kind of look like him, yeah, but Paul’s not a girl.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Paul rattled out. “Gene, are you gonna vouch for me or what?”

“This is a—”

“Why the hell should we believe you on this, Gene?” Peter again. “You must think we’re fucking idiots! Running around with this chick, making up all sorts of fucking stories—who’s to say Paul ain’t lying dead in the fucking bathroom right now?!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Paul had reached for Peter again, like he somehow thought contact would clarify everything. Peter stepped back, brushing away his hand. “I’m right here! I never went anywhere! I-I can prove it to both of you!”

“You got at least two really good proofs you ain’t him, and they’re hanging right off your chest right now, you—”

“ _Pete._ ” Gene’s voice surprised even him. “He’s telling the truth.”

“Would you—”

“Peter!” Ace, much louder than normal, before quieting down, almost as if in apology. “We got this far.”

“They’re both lying!”

“Give it a minute, yeah? Give it a minute.”

Peter rolled his eyes, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Ace continued, giving Gene a cautious glance before turning his focus back to Paul.

“There’s something bad wrong with you, I can tell that much,” he said. “Course, there’s something bad wrong with Paulie, too, but—"

“You’re one to talk, Ace,” Paul snapped. Ace didn’t look perturbed in the slightest.

“I mean, he’s a Capricorn and real neurotic and shit.” Paul let out a disgruntled sound at the comment, one Ace ignored as he continued. “Could you do something for me?”

“You tried to break into my goddamn house and now you’re—”

“Walk around.” Ace held up his hands. “’M not gonna do anything. I just wanna see.”

Paul made a face but walked to the opposite end of the porch and back, hands straight at his sides. Gene watched. He thought he knew what Ace was getting at—he hoped he did, at least. Paul’s stiff, straight-backed gait wasn’t much different than it had been before this mess had started. Gene hadn’t really noticed prior, consciously. It was just another peculiarity. The same actions and characteristics transposed onto the wrong body, giving him away—if you knew where to look.

Ace, apparently, did. That off-putting insight was finally going towards something worthwhile. Gene shifted, oddly uncomfortable.

“You walk more like a guy. And you didn’t try to kick us in the nuts.” Ace pursed his lips in contemplation. The rest of his expression was unreadable. “Doesn’t mean anything by itself, but…”

Paul was starting to look a little hopeful. A little eager. He stepped in closer to where Peter and Ace were standing, as if he were about to reach out for them.

“Ace, I can prove I’m Paul! Ask me something. Ask me anything. Go on!”

Ace shrugged amicably, turning his head.

“Pete, you got anything to ask her?”

Pete looked irritated that Ace was turning Paul’s demand on him. He took a second to consider, looking at Paul warily. Gene waited, wondering what question Pete would pull out.

“What’s my cat’s name?”

“Mateus. You didn’t even name him. Lydia did.”

Paul had answered almost in an instant. Peter blinked, but shook his head.

“You could’ve gotten that just from reading the magazines.”

Paul let out a curse.

“Then ask me something else. Ask me about—Jesus, I don’t know—"

“The dick-measuring contest.” Ace’s voice was soft and absolutely devoid of humor.

“What?”

“Who won the dick-measuring contest?”

“Jesus, Ace, I…” Paul’s face went red. Gene bit back a wince, not sure if it was on his own behalf or Paul’s. “That’s… that’s so fucking embarrassing, don’t—”

“And tell me who got second and third and fourth.”

“ _Ace!_ ” Oh, God. Paul was actually squeaking. It would have been endearing in any other situation. Gene searched Ace’s expression, as bland and out of it as usual, for even a twinge of pity or amusement or anything, but there was nothing. He wasn’t going to let him out of this. A little uncertainty rose from somewhere in Gene’s stomach as Paul finally admitted, “Okay, okay! Peter won!”

Ace’s eyes got huge again, mouth forming a tight oval Gene had seen maybe four hundred times onstage. Paul had probably seen it more than that. Actually, Paul and Peter both in all those idiotic threesomes. Why that was still sticking in his craw, Gene didn’t know. Beside him, Peter’s mouth was wide open. Ace looked like he was trying to answer back, but Paul started rambling into a response before he could.

“Well, we all knew he was going to win! The only one we hadn’t seen before was Gene’s!”

“You—”

“You want the placements? You were second! I was in third, and Gene was in fourth, and then I said it wasn’t fair since no one was hard, and you two had the fucking Loch Ness monster for dicks anyway and—”

“Holy fucking shit.”

Ace and Peter both looked scared as all hell for a few seconds. Peter reached out, almost cautiously, touching Paul’s shoulder like he was afraid it was going to dissolve into ash if he dared grasp it. Gene thought at first Peter was just trying to make sure Paul was still solid, until Peter tugged at his collar. Gene stiffened on weird automatic, but Paul seemed to realize what he wanted, undoing the bow and pulling down the sleeve, exposing a droopy bra strap and his tattoo again. Peter stared at that bright red rose like it held all the secrets to a number-one single, tracing up and down it with his finger before pulling back.

“That’s why you were trying to show me,” he said softly. “That’s what you were trying…”

“That’s it, all right.” Ace was peering in, too. “It isn’t like Paul’s, it is Paul’s. I ought to know. We got our tattoos the same day.”

“Paul,” Peter said, staring as Paul tugged up his sleeve and retied the bow. “Paul, I… fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Pete—”

Peter hesitated visibly. Then he wrapped his arms around Paul in a tight hug.

“I thought—I thought Gene had stole your girl!”

“I know—”

“I thought you’d lost it! Run off and had a nervous breakdown! I… I had no idea you were right… Paulie…”

Paul hugged him back after a few seconds, clearly overwhelmed. Relief looked like it was flooding his face. It made Gene’s guilt feel all the heavier, there, clotted somewhere beyond the back of his throat. He felt slimy, somehow. Slimy for not considering Paul’s family, for not considering Paul’s relief at being believed by his bandmates. Slimy for the part of him that had liked being the only one who knew. That felt like it was for the best. What did he know about what was best for Paul? Paul looked happier now than he’d seen him this entire time.

Peter let go after awhile. Paul’s arms hung in the air for a second before Ace realized they were out for him. Their hug was relatively brief, Ace looking weirded-out by the entire prospect.

“Shit, how many inches did you drop there?”

“Three or four.”

“You’re shorter than Peter now! Not by a lot, but…”

“What the hell _happened_? Did you wanna be a chick?” Peter blurted it out of nowhere, expected and inevitable.

“ _No!_ ” Paul nearly yelled it out. “I got cursed, okay? The girl that did this, she—she’s supposed to come to Studio 54 every night. I’m trying to find her. Get her to take this off of me.”

“Who? Who did it?”

“Some girl. Not—not a celebrity, just some girl.”

“Paulie… why didn’t you tell us?”

“I tried to! Yesterday! You just blew me off!”

“You were yanking down your clothes! What was I supposed to think?”

“I tried—”

“Why didn’t you tell us when it _happened_? We could’ve helped you! We all could’ve helped you.” Peter got quieter then. “You didn’t have to just stick it all on Gene.”

“I didn’t,” Paul mumbled. “He figured it out on his own.”

“How?”

“The tattoo,” Gene said. Paul shot him a relieved look. Ace looked askance, chewing on his lip.

“Do you wanna tell Bill now?”

“God, no. Bill’s got enough problems.”

“He’d keep it quiet. Y’know how he is, that guy could’ve stopped Watergate.”

“We’re hoping to get it resolved before we’ve got to tell anyone else,” Gene said. “If Bill knew, he’d postpone the tour at minimum.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” Ace exhaled. “Okay, Paulie.”

“Okay?”

“There’s more to it than what you just said. We’d all better sit down for this shit. You gonna let us in?”

“Your card’s still in my door.”

“Oh. Yeah, it is.” Instead of pulling it out, Ace pushed it in further between the jamb and the door, jiggling the knob as he did so. The door fell open. “You gotta get better locks sometime. C’mon, girlie.”


	12. jump right ahead and you're dead

Peter and Ace stuck around for a couple hours. Long enough that Paul heated up the leftover pizza for them, and Gene ended up getting two more delivered, while the forgotten remains of both their Dairy Queen milkshakes just melted in Paul’s car. Paul confessed to nearly everything, from when Gene had first come over to the call to Steve Rubell’s secretary.

Peter had been pretty loath to talk about witchcraft and ways to alleviate the curse at any real length. It seemed to make him as queasy as it did Gene. Ace, on the other hand, perused Paul’s occult books for awhile, and offered to scour some old hippie contacts and see if they still knew any witches.

“Or Suzie. But she would’ve told you herself if she knew anyone good.” Ace had shrugged, devouring another slice of pizza. “Thing is… thing is, you’re better off going to the source. You just don’t wanna mess with it yourself if you don’t have to. You got really fucked up. You don’t wanna risk making it any worse, getting someone else to try to fix it.”

“You think someone might turn me into a frog on accident?”

Ace had laughed.

“We could get you a cute costume that way. What d’you think, Geno?”

“We could get him a cute costume now.”

“Bet you already have.”

Paul’s face went red. Ace winked.

“But… really, thing is, this kind of shit isn’t your basic curse.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Y’know, bad luck for a couple months, bad acne, psoriasis, that kinda curse.” Ace ran a thumb across his own pockmarked cheek, then added, unnecessarily, “I’ve had this since I landed on Earth, it ain’t a curse—but that’s about all most witches could’ve done to you.”

“Anybody ever do anything to you, Ace?” Paul asked. It was a pretty fair question, Gene felt like. Ace used to run with a weird crowd. Still did. But Ace shook his head.

“Nah. Well, Suzie told me KISS’d never get a number-one single here. But that was more of a prediction—”

“She’s wrong.” Gene dismissed her out of hand. Across from him, sitting on the coffee table, Peter nodded in agreement. Ace shrugged.

“What I mean is, it could take awhile to fix, and that’s if she wants to fix it.”

“Ace, we’re not canceling the tour.”

“’M not saying cancel.” Ace gnawed heavily on his lip. Gene could tell he was just about to ask Paul for a beer. “But how far back do you think we could push it? Couple months?”

“We couldn’t push it back any without Bill wanting a reason why,” Gene said flatly.

“So let’s give him a reason why.” Ace exhaled. “I’ll… y’know, I never did have a big honeymoon with Jeanette. I could tell him I wanted three weeks for that.”

“That’s only three weeks—”

“Yeah, but…” Ace reached for the Tab Peter had been drinking out of, finishing it off with a gulp. “It’s about buying time. We could keep on finding excuses if we had to.”

“I don’t want you to have to,” Paul said. “I don’t want to fuck things up for everybody.”

The silence lingered for several moments. No one said a word to argue his point. Paul’s gaze lowered to one of the cardboard pizza boxes, and, next to it, the box of Gene’s Studio 54 clothes. Finally, Peter spoke.

“You can’t help it, Paulie. We’re gonna do what we can.” He rubbed his arm. “Could probably get my doctor to say I’ve gotta take off another month if I have to.”

“Don’t say anything yet.”

“I won’t. We won’t.” Peter hesitated. “Hey, you want us coming to 54 with you tonight?”

Ace perked up.

“That’d help. Four guys looking for the same girl. One of us could be in the basement, one in the VIP lounge upstairs—”

“You’d just be fucking in the basement,” Paul accused dryly.

“It’s good for running into people. Groupies all over there. Besides, Steve’s bunch is just as loaded as he is. They may not remember what girl you wanted.”

Ace had a point. Gene mulled it over, glancing at Paul, who nodded, before he answered.

“Yeah, okay. But not all in the same limo.”

“Aw, c’mon! Why not?”

“It’d attract too much attention. Everyone would be wondering where Paul was.”

“Me and Pete’ll go together. We’ll get there later so it’s not as obvious.” Ace took another slice of pizza. “Remind me again, yeah? Brown hair, freckles, short?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Carol… Carol Johnson?”

“Jensen.”

“Gotcha.” Ace shook his head. “God, Paulie, you gotta start making photo albums like Gene. You get better descriptions outta those police sketch artists.”

\--

The rest of the afternoon was placid enough. Paul and Gene lazed around after Ace and Peter left. Gene turned on the T.V. and they watched _The Edge of Night_ (how the hell that soap was still on, Gene didn’t know), Paul flopping next to him with his legs hanging over the couch. There was something comfortable about it. Paul only got up once the show’s credits streamed down the screen, turning it off.

“You don’t want to watch the news?”

“No. We’d still have half an hour. Besides, I wanted to show you something. C’mon.”

Gene followed him out of the living room, down the stairs to the den. He’d been there before, sure, but Paul had never really given him a house tour. KISS’ gold records hung from the wood-paneled walls, along with an assortment of posters and memorabilia from their earlier tours. All stuff Gene had at home himself—if anything, Gene had a lot more of it—but Paul didn’t acknowledge it, heading for three bookshelves packed with records.

“Back when I was in high school,” he said, “I used to try to buy one album every couple of weeks. I’d have to get the cut-outs.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So once we got big, I decided I’d get every record I ever wanted.” Paul grinned a little ruefully. “But I didn’t really think it through, so this is what I ended up with.”

“Uh-huh.” Gene tugged out a copy of Alvin and the Chipmunks’ “Witch Doctor.” “I think that goes without saying.”

“C’mon, I was a kid when that came out.”

“Do you have ‘Flying Purple People Eater,’ too?”

“Don’t laugh, I might.” Paul started thumbing through the shelves. Gene almost told him not to go looking for it, but instead of the Sheb Wooley single, Paul took out a copy of Rod Stewart’s latest offering, last year’s _A Night on the Town_. Gene looked at it quizzically.

“What’s this for?”

“Good luck.” Paul slid the record out of its sleeve and handed it to Gene. “Put it on.”

Gene put it on. The vinyl crackled appreciably. Last year’s hit on that first track. Rod Stewart could pair filthy lyrics with a number-one hit, while KISS was stuck going the clean ballad route just to hit the top ten.

“‘Tonight’s the Night’?” Oh. That made sense. Well, it made some sense. Gene was getting the impression Paul might not have thought his selection through, as Rod started to gravel-voice his way into getting a virgin into bed. “Hoping for a pretty exciting evening, aren’t you?”

“Not—Gene, I meant we’d find the girl.” Paul tapped Gene’s shoulder with the album jacket. “It’s positive thinking. Norman Vincent Peale and all that.”

Gene grinned.

“Pretty raunchy. I thought you’d pick a cleaner pick-me-up.”

“Whatever, I like it.” Paul propped the jacket against the record player. His face was faintly flushed. “The whole album’s pretty good.”

“I know. I have it.” Gene listened to the saxophone’s croon before cutting in again. “You really just wanted me to see your record collection?”

“No. Not exactly.” Paul shifted. “Look, I know you don’t really go to the discos much.”

“So? Paul, I don’t mind doing it for you.”

“Yeah, but… shit, I don’t know. You got bored last night.”

“I didn’t get bored. I had a pretty good view.”

Paul rolled his eyes.

“There’s not a lot to do at 54 besides get wasted and dance. And neither of us is going to get wasted.”

That was true of any club, and most of why he didn’t go. He could get laid just as easily in his own neighborhood, without the hassle of dressing up and schmoozing.

“It’s fine. Maybe I’ll bring a book.”

“Gene.” Paul had his tongue peeking slightly past his teeth. Nervous. “I wanna teach you to dance.”

“What for?”

“So you’ll have something to do. That way, we don’t look like creeps waiting around.” The first track was edging towards the halfway point. Paul took his hand. “What do you say?”

“Don’t you want something a little faster?”

“No. This is good.” Paul took Gene’s other arm, positioning his hand on his shoulder. “You can dance to anything, if you’ve got rhythm.”

“You’re leading.”

“Damn right.” Paul had his other hand on his waist already, was urging him forward with that hand. Gene took an obedient, offbeat step, and Paul sighed but stepped back in time with Gene instead of with the beat. A couple more steps and Paul had them back on track again, although Gene felt about as awkward as he had during senior prom ten years prior. “It’s mirroring, mostly. Mirroring and—getting a feel for your partner, what they can do.”

“A feel, huh?”

“Getting a feel, not copping one.” Paul pursed his lips in consideration. “Don’t watch your feet so much. Keep it up here.”

“When did you start dancing?”

“I dunno. I always wanted to.” He was starting to get more complicated than the sort of forward-back motion that was all Gene could readily accomplish. Shifting more than his feet around. Had he been doing that from the beginning? Paul’s grip on him was more relaxed than the reverse, that much was definite. “Just one of those stupid things. I used to watch all those variety shows when I was a kid, and think, ‘hey, I could do that.’ Dance, sing… puppeteer…” Paul snorted, and dropped his arm from Gene’s waist. Gene almost let go entirely, but then Paul squeezed his hand, raising it up. Gene gave him a blank look in return, before realizing, several beats too late, that Paul had been trying to get him into a spin.

“Puppeteer?”

“Howdy Doody’s a—formative influence—”

“Uh-huh.” The mildly disappointed expression on Paul’s face made him a little concerned, and he added, “Try that again, I wasn’t ready.”

Paul lifted his arm again. Gene made the spin, his movements stilted, feeling a bit stupid for all of it until he saw Paul start to grin.

“Maybe we should try it like this.”

“Like what?”

Rod had just about made it with the girl, the moaned-out French at the end of the track something Gene could only guess at. Paul just took him by both hands.

“A little less formal, right? Hang on.” Paul let go, hurrying back to the record player. Gene watched him take the vinyl off and stuff it back into the sleeve and jacket, before rummaging around the shelves again. He pulled out another record, though this time he didn’t show Gene the jacket before putting it on. Not that it mattered. Gene recognized the harmonies anyway, well before Paul made his way back to where he was standing. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young’s _Deja Vu_.

“Figured we could go way back.” Paul took his hands again as the record played, his steps faster, more energetic. Gene didn’t really think the band had meant for anyone to dance to their stuff. He kept up awkwardly at first, but something about how enthusiastic Paul was, how much he put into every move, how he tried to fit the steps to the songs, buoyed him. His curls would bounce a bit depending on the tempo. It was almost cute to watch. Almost infectious. Gene hesitated before trying to get Paul into a turn himself, getting a gratified look and an eager spin in return. He was starting to get it, a bit, the way just a shift or a squeeze of the hand was enough of a signal of where to turn or where he was headed. Like that sense he’d get, that sense they’d all get, if one of the guys was having an off night and they needed to cover during a concert. It was warm, intuitive.

Paul was breathing a little heavily by the time they’d gone through the first few tracks, hands sweaty. Gene tried to get him into one more spin as the record buzzed. He caught Paul’s shoulder with his free hand while he was halfway through, his back towards Gene’s. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Paul stopped there, turning to look at Gene, questioning.

“Something wrong?”

“No. I’m fine.” Gene shifted forward—a bad idea; they’d been closer than he realized, and now he was up against him. The melancholic harmonies of “Country Girl” were starting to swell. Gene pursed his suddenly dry lips, feeling stupid, no, feeling absolutely moronic, as he let go of Paul’s hand. “I—I think we better get ready.”

Paul’s expression drooped only for a moment, like the hesitant flicker of lights just before a power outage. His hand went to his side.

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Lemme get the record.” He took a step, Gene’s hold on his shoulder slackening to nothing, Gene’s hand faltering down to his own side, and walked over to retrieve the record, the moment fading away before he even lifted the needle.

\--

A few hours later, Peter and Ace were in a limo, grousing. They’d gotten ready for Studio 54 earlier than they’d meant to from sheer antsiness, and now they were reduced to making the driver get them fast food they didn’t even want to kill time.

Well, Peter didn’t want it, but he was pretty sure Ace would eat his share for him. He was also sure it wasn’t quite enough of a delaying tactic to keep him and Ace from arriving right around when Paul and Gene did, but Ace reassured him he could keep that from happening. Peter sighed, glancing out the window to make sure the driver wasn’t on his way out of the restaurant yet, before speaking again.

“What do you think about it?”

Ace raised his head slightly at the question. He had brought a deck of cards and was shuffling them as they waited. Sometimes he’d lift the cards up into a sloppy arc as he riffled through them. He’d been fairly quiet, no real goofing off, not even any drinking, since they’d doubled back to Peter’s, gotten ready for the evening, and scrounged up the limo. Two nights in a row at 54 might’ve been murder on a normal human being, but in his less-sober moments, Peter could convince himself he’d spent the last four years with Jendell’s most questionable export.

“What do I think about what, Pete?”

“What we’re gonna do about Paul.”

“Nothing to do about Paul. Either he gets back to normal or he doesn’t.”

“I meant the band.” None of them had really wanted to bring it up. Ace had only barely alluded to it when he’d offered to delay the tour with a honeymoon. “If we don’t find that girl, or Paul doesn’t get back to normal, what’s going to happen to the band?”

“You know what’s going to happen.” Ace sounded more quietly cynical than he had in a long time. “We all know what’s going to happen.”

“I’m not kicking Paul out of his own fucking band.”

“I’m not, either. And Gene’d rather get a tongue reduction than hurt Paul like that.” Ace shifted, kicking his heels up to the glass partition between them and the driver, while he kept toying with the deck in his hands. “We’ll all just have to pack it up. If he doesn’t get fixed, KISS is gone.”

Pack it up. The thought felt like the gum beneath a desk at school. Peter didn’t like thinking about the options. They could all try solo acts—he felt like he had a better shot than the others, given “Beth”… or join up in some other band, but it felt… dirty. It wasn’t like Paul had gotten on drugs or turned into a completely insufferable asshole or blown out his voice. He’d just had something shitty happen to him that they couldn’t—

“Do you think Bill could spin it? Let’s say… let’s say we don’t tell him everything.” Peter was trying to think. “Let’s say Paul’s fucked off, but hey, we found a replacement that kinda looks like him. A real pretty girl. We got a whole new market. Chicks don’t ever front rock bands—”

“Petey, we couldn’t keep it up.” Ace gnawed his lip. “Bill’d still wanna know who this girl was. Even if Paul could fool him, we’d still get blown out of the water the minute people started asking questions. We’d need IDs, a passport…”

“We could get fakes made.”

“Then what?” Ace shook his head. “Paul’d be living like that guy in _The Fugitive_. Worse. Having to pretend he really was some random chick in front of the whole damn world… I don’t wanna shoot you down, man, but we’re sunk.”

Peter groaned.

“KISS is sunk and Gene gets a girlfriend. Fucking terrible trade-off.”

“Poor Geno.” Ace laughed. “He might figure it’s worth it, you think?”

“Nah. Gene likes money more than he likes getting laid.” Peter swallowed. “You think they’ve fucked yet?”

“C’mon, Paulie’s a _lady_ ,” Ace managed, before bursting into those weird, high giggles again. “He won’t give it up that quick. How long did it take you to warm him up to it?”

“Not too long.”

Ace held the deck up. Peter shook his head. Shrugging, Ace started trying to cut the deck with one hand, and flip the halves over with his thumb. He only succeeded in spilling most of the deck onto the floorboard and seats. Peter reached over, obediently helping him gather up the cards and handing them back over. Ace winked, taking the stack.

“What’s on your mind, anyway, Cat?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Ace said it lightly. “You’re not really worried about whether Gene’s made it with him or not.”

“God, no.” The thought was more disturbing than it needed to be. “It’s just that I should’ve figured it out from the start.” Peter let out an irritated breath. “Gene only saw him once and figured it out. It took me three times. Paul had to tell me before I—"

“Hey, you got him, that’s the important thing.”

“Yeah, but… he wasn’t good at pretending the first time. He called me Pete. And the second time, he kept trying to tell me—”

“Pete, c’mon, you weren’t expecting him to look like that—”

“Makes me think I don’t really know him.”

Ace looked at him almost sadly. He’d stopped fiddling with the deck of cards, setting them on his thigh.

“You know him better than you think.”

“You think so?”

“Positive.” Ace’s head jerked up suddenly. Peter’s gaze followed his, and he saw the beleaguered limo driver heading out of the restaurant, with two sackfuls of barbeque sandwiches, fries, and a couple of sodas. Ace put an unnecessary finger to his lips as the driver opened their door and handed over the sacks. “Hey, man, thanks. Didja get yourself anything?”

“I shouldn’t eat on the job.”

“C’mon, I used to drive cabs, I’d eat in there all the time.” Ace cackled, digging awkwardly in his back pocket. “Get some food if you want. Then come back in here. We’ll play some poker before you take us over.”

“You’re not worried about the time?”

“Nah. I got the time if you got the money.” He grinned. “Hey, hey, Petey’ll spot you, right?”

“I ain’t spotting anyone.”

“Then the best hand gets… aw, hell, I dunno. You beat us three times in a row and we’ll bring you into the disco, you dig?”

As the driver sidled into the back of the limo, Peter scooted over to give him room. Five minutes later, barbeque sandwich in one hand, a straight in the other, Peter decided they were going to be late after all.


	13. sit up, fed up, low down, go 'round

“You look,” Gene said, throat drier than sandpaper, “really good.”

Good was an understatement. Paul looked hot. The light blue of the dress made a good contrast against his still-suntanned skin. The neckline made up for the dress length, providing more cleavage than Gene had seen out of Paul since he’d first met him on the front porch in the bathrobe. The heels accentuated his legs—even as a guy, Paul had always had nice legs—but for maybe the first time in three days, Gene was paying more attention to Paul’s face than his body.

It wasn’t like he’d done anything wild with makeup. Blush, red lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara. Except for the eyeliner maybe being a bit heavier, it was about the same look as the night prior. But Paul seemed happier. Relaxed. There wasn’t that tightness to his jaw anymore or that tension to his mouth. And that was a surprise, given the stilted way their dancing earlier had ended. Gene thought Paul might have been sore or tetchy, or at least awkward, but he’d just carried right on. Those sad brown eyes of his didn’t look sad at all, for once, and if Gene were sentimental, he would almost have said they were sparkling.

Maybe he’d just liked sharing a few dances with Gene. And maybe tonight really was the night that this would all be over. Every bit of it. Back to normal life for them both, touring and signing and interviewing. Back to life a hotel room away from each other. He’d be stupid to regret the change. Just stupid.

“You’re not half so bad yourself, Gene.” Paul crooked his head as if he hadn’t seen variations of his outfit at least a dozen times over just this year. As if he hadn’t been suggesting half of it while Gene had asked for the clothes to be sent over. Black leather everything, including the pants—something he already was regretting bitterly. Silver accessories. A belt with a spider encased in enamel as the buckle plate. The public demanded a monster movie out of Gene even when he got off the stage.

“That’s generous.” The limo was already idling in Paul’s driveway. “You ready?”

It took a few seconds for Paul to answer. He wasn’t looking at Gene, at least, not directly in the face; it almost seemed as though Paul was scoping him out, assessing him like there was something new to assess. Gene would have called him out on it, except during times like this, he never was sure if it was Paul’s hearing or Paul’s daydreaming to blame.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

The limo ride was uneventful. Gene decided he didn’t care for Studio 54 long before they pulled up to the VIP entrance. He decided that through the line wrapping around the building for what seemed like miles, the garish outfits of the wannabes begging for admittance, and the weird air of desperation mixed with eagerness that seemed to permeate through the limo windowpane. It made him feel itchy. Beside him, Paul had spent a bit of time doodling peace signs and dicks in the misted-up windowglass like it was a school notebook. His good mood didn’t seem to dampen until the limousine stopped, and he saw the press, out there already, all cameras and notepads.

“Gene—”

“It’s fine, I’ve got my bandana.” He’d forgotten to ask for it over the phone, but it’d been in the box of clothes for him anyway. A couple of them, actually. “Do you want one?”

Paul shook his head.

“No, it’s okay. Switch spots with me, would you?”

Gene swapped obligingly. The limo wasn’t roomy enough to avoid Paul brushing up against him as they traded seats. He caught the woodsy scent of Aramis cologne in Paul’s hair, just another indication of what he’d spent three days pounding into his head now.

“Want me to hold the door for you, too?”

“God, no.”

Gene laughed, and got out first. The bandanas always made him feel like he was about to rob a bank. Every so often, they’d get goofy with it, find weird headgear—knight and astronaut and football helmets—but for the most part, bandanas and scarves were enough out in public, real public. Places where they wanted to be seen, under normal circumstances. The first half-dozen camera flashes were blinding as always. He helped Paul out of the limo, hovering over him as he stepped out. Part of him wished he’d thought to bring a jacket, but maybe that would’ve made it worse, provoked the paparazzi more, if he’d tried covering Paul up too much.

“You okay?” he asked, as the crowd shuddered and swarmed around them. A horde, just a horde, worse than the CBGB crowd ever considered being. Fans would want an autograph or a lay. The press only ever wanted blood.

“I’m fine, I’m—”

“Mr. Simmons!” A woman reporter called out, touching his free arm. “Can I have just a moment?”

“No,” he said, brushing past, his hold on Paul’s arm only getting tighter. Walking quickly, not making eye contact, until the line—there was a _line_ , unbelievably, for VIPs—forced him to stop. Paul had his head half-buried against his shoulder for the whole duration of their wait, tensing with every camera flash and intrigued leer. Gene realized, offhand, that the attention wasn’t pissing Paul off the way it had at CBGB. Instead, it was scaring him.

It made sense, he supposed. CBGB wasn’t nearly important enough to have reporters and cameramen about. They didn’t have big names there, either, no one that Paul would’ve really worried about bumping into. Paul had said earlier that he didn’t think he could pull off talking to someone that knew him, and Gene suspected he was right. Gene suspected an interviewer was even further beyond him at this point.

He’d expected to just be let in once they arrived at the velvet-roped entrance, not really believing Paul’s claims about exclusivity, but instead, a broad-shouldered kid with a grin held them up at the door.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Gene echoed, and shoved down his bandana. On wry automatic, he held up his free hand—full of rings, including the skull one that the teenyboppers seemed fascinated by—as if it was a secret signal. The doorman blinked, unconvinced. Gene could hear Paul snort beside him. “I’m Gene Simmons from KISS, and the—lovely Miss Eisen and I would—”

Still smiling, the doorman pointed at his own tongue.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” But Gene stuck it out anyway. The kid’s expression didn’t change much as he opened the door to let them in. Gene pocketed his bandana, but he didn’t loosen his grip on Paul until they were on the VIP floor, and hopefully beyond the bulk of the press’ touch, and even then, he didn’t let go. Paul looked a little shaken up, anyway, though Gene couldn’t blame him. It was a different beast from last night, for all their objective hadn’t changed.

“Don’t worry. They won’t have gotten any good shots,” Gene said.

“That may not matter. Depends on who else is here.” Paul sighed, worming his arm out from Gene’s, shifting to hold his hand instead. No hesitation. He was getting accustomed to it. So was Gene.

Gene stole a glance Paul’s way before really taking a look at the scene, trying to absorb New York’s hottest discotheque, decide if the interior impressed him any more than the exterior. He decided it didn’t. Maybe too promptly. But the flashing lights, the blaring music—all that was ostensibly no different from CBGB, or any other bar or club; it was just a matter of size and budget and spectacle. It didn’t matter if someone was worth ten bucks or ten million; they all looked the same passed out on the floor. Enough of them were already that Gene couldn’t quite believe they’d gotten to Studio 54 on time.

“What do you think, Gene?”

“You _liked_ it here?”

The VIP floor was covered in lounge furniture, long couches and glass-topped tables. The carpets were dirty, and the smell of booze was heavier in the air than Gene had experienced in years. Probably not since that ill-fated _Hotter than Hell_ shoot when they’d first started off, the one that had very nearly ended with—well. Gene wasn’t in the mood to consider that one, not given Paul’s current shape.

But almost every square inch of the place was smothered in people. Hollywood giants, of vintage and modern flavors. He saw Liz Taylor—wild, to see Cleopatra in the flesh, nearly fifteen years out from the role and easily fifty pounds heavier. He saw Michael Jackson, making moon-eyes as usual at Diana Ross. Poor, hopeless kid. He could’ve sworn he saw Truman Capote, hitting on a well-muscled, shirtless bartender. And all around the giants were the hangers-on and the hopefuls and the arm candies of the duration. Transvestites in g-string bikinis, lesbians in suits. It was viscerally strange, the sheer variety. No one was paying them much mind yet, aware, somehow, that they were too sober to be worth noticing. Paul cleared his throat, defensive.

“Well, yeah, I like it. It’s kind of wild, yeah, but—”

Three feet from them, a producer was puking straight onto the carpet, while a Playboy bunny rubbed the top of his head. On top of one of the tables, a guy was snorting a line of coke straight down a naked girl’s breasts, and as he kept sliding, Gene realized that the powder ran all the way down, bisecting her torso.

“Paul, this is a cesspool.”

“C’mon, you’ve seen this shit before.”

“Not all at once.” Gene shook his head. “You’re not even into it. Why would you go here?” He understood it for Ace and Peter, as drugged-up as they’d get. He didn’t understand it for Paul. What was he trying to accomplish? What would it really matter, getting with the big names right in their stomping grounds, when those names were so trashed that they were useless? _I want to belong somewhere_ , that was what he’d said. But this somewhere wasn’t it.

“I just—”

“Mr. Simmons!” came a voice out of the din, eager and excitable. Not a VIP. The tone was too innocent, too close to admiring. Gene turned around.

“I’m not doing auto—”

“Mr. Simmons! I work for Mr. Rubell! I’m one of the doormen!” The kid couldn’t have been older than twenty, blondish and broad-shouldered. “Sorry I didn’t get you at the door, we’ve got a couple new guys, they don’t know—but listen, we’re all looking for that Carol chick!”

“Good.”

“We’ll tell Mr. Stanley when we see him, too.”

“Thanks.”

The doorman nodded, making an awkward salute before heading back. Obliquely, Gene wondered if Bill and Sean had checked Studio 54 out yet. Rubell seemed to have a hiring preference in line with their tastes. He turned to Paul again.

“Looks like they got the memo. You wanna sit down?”

“I… maybe for a minute.” Paul’s eyes darted around, searching for an empty table. Gene looked, too, but he didn’t see one. No corners they could tuck themselves into—not that a corner would’ve been great for keeping a lookout for Carol. Gene felt Paul squeeze his hand. Shot nerves already. Gene could tell that much before Paul spoke again. “If I can keep from talking to anybody, that’d be great.”

“I don’t think you’re going to be that lucky,” Gene said dryly, spying a tall man getting up out of his chair and waving them over.

“If it isn’t Gene Simmons!” the man called out in a distinctively non-American accent. Even if he hadn’t spoken, the feathered brown hair and bright smile would’ve made it obvious. It was Barry Gibb, holding a glass of champagne. “I thought your band was back on the road!”

“Barry, hey,” Gene said, sticking out his hand on automatic. Barry shook it exuberantly. “You’re a few weeks early for that one. How are you?”

Paul looked a bit like he wanted to die on the spot. Barry didn’t seem to notice.

“Great, great. My little brother, Andy…” if possible, Barry’s beaming increased, “he’s just released a single. It’s a guaranteed hit.”

“Really? I think I’d heard he had his own group in Australia—”

“Zenta! You do keep up!” Barry clasped his shoulder. “No, that’s done with now. He’s doing some fantastic solo work…”

Despite the meaningful, sour glances Paul kept throwing his way, Gene’s interest was piqued enough at the thought of a hit, and the thought of a worthwhile contact—the time or two they’d met in passing prior, Barry had been just about this congenial, so Gene didn’t think he was drunk—that he accepted Barry’s invitation to sit down. The next twenty minutes were filled with shop talk, Barry sending off for a Coke for Gene and a whiskey highball for Paul (Gene suspected Paul took Barry up on the offer as payback rather than an actual desire to drink, since he barely touched it), and praise Gene had a hard time fully enjoying.

“My son loves KISS, you know,” Barry said at one point. “He’s never gotten half so excited over our albums.”

“Really? How old is he?” Gene took a sip of his Coke, leaning forward. “We’ll have Casablanca send him something. We have a whole catalog of new merchandise in the works.”

“He’ll be four in December.”

Paul, who had stayed mostly silent up until that point, looked mortified.

“ _Four?_ ” he almost wailed. Barry seemed amused.

“Oh, love, it’s not an insult. I wish we had that kind of mass appeal behind us.”

“Gene, this—we’ve got to talk to Bill, Gene, we just can’t—I know we don’t get taken seriously, but for God’s sake—”

Under the table, Gene nudged Paul’s bare ankle with his boot. Paul flushed and cut himself off abruptly. Barry glanced over at Paul, then took a swallow of champagne.

“The youth market's the best one to be in, Polly. I've been in this industry long enough to promise you that."

“What, ten years?”

“Next year it’ll be twenty.” Barry got up, shaking both their hands. “I hate to leave you too abruptly, but I’m to meet up with Maurice in a bit. Great to meet you, Polly, great to see you again, Gene.”

“Yeah. And I do mean it, about the merch. We’ve got dolls—”

“Oh, Steve’d love them. Thank you.” Another bright smile, and Barry headed off. Paul let out a groan as soon as he was out of earshot.

“Twenty years,” he mumbled, slumping forward, propping his head up with his hand. “How the hell was I supposed to know the Bee Gees have been at it for twenty years?”

“I didn’t, either,” Gene admitted.

“Fuck, how old is Barry, anyway? Peter’s age?”

“I have no idea.”

“At least he’s not gonna see me again like this. God, he thought I was a jackass…” Paul sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“He didn’t take it personally. Barry’s a good guy.”

“Twenty years stuck with his brothers. I’m amazed they haven’t killed each other.” Paul got up, stepping away from the table, and Gene followed suit. “Think we can get a better look around without getting interrupted? I couldn’t see anything from here.”

Just from a cursory glance, Gene doubted it. Most of the other tables were full or near-full, and no good for people-watching. They’d be better off on the floor.

“We’re going to have to stand to see.” Gene started to take Paul’s arm again, almost on automatic, but a glance at his shoulder stopped him. “Did you get another bra?”

“What?”

Gene pressed a finger against the purple strap hanging past Paul’s sleeve. Paul shook his head, looking abashed.

“No, this is… this is just the nightie.”

Paul’s cheeks were going a little pink. That pink went straight to red when Gene tugged the strap back into place for him. He had to push Paul’s hair back and turn up his sleeve in order to fix the strap up again to his shoulder, under the dress. His skin was soft, dotted with a handful of moles Gene hadn’t ever really noticed before. There was the pitted smallpox vaccination scar, and the tattoo, of course, the green stem peeking a little past his sleeve. Gene’s fingers lingered longer than they needed to on his arm before he remembered himself enough to pull back.

“The nightie? Why are you wearing that here?”

The redness in Paul’s face wasn’t anywhere near abating.

“Because I didn’t buy a slip. This dress is thinner than I thought.”

“I bet it looks cute on.”

Paul fidgeted, starting to adjust the strap himself, fiddling with the slider.

“Thought you said you just liked what was underneath.”

“Well, that’s the main event, but you’ve got to say something for packaging—"

“Keep pushing it and you won’t find out.”

“I’ll take the chance.” Gene grinned. “Dance with me.”

He said it on impulse, almost airily. The song blaring through the speakers—some new funk bit from Marvin Gaye was already midway through. Paul put one hand on Gene’s shoulder. Still worried about what people thought of him, even in a place like this. A place where no one would’ve even given much of a shit about them dancing if Paul was like he ought to be. And yet here Paul was, thinking anyone’d care about a girl leading a guy. Gene shook his head, taking Paul’s arm and moving it to his waist.

“No, you lead.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

The driving, pulsating bassline and wailing saxophone were such a far cry from the CSNY album they’d danced to in Paul’s basement. There was a flippant, overly sexual air to disco that was kind of fascinating. More marketable than their own sordid stuff. Gene didn’t know if KISS would try and ride the wave—they’d talked about it, and Paul had tossed around a few song lyrics—but it hadn’t come to much yet. Might ruin their image. Might solidify it.

Step by step. Paul was stiffer on the dance floor than he’d been in the basement. Partially because of how he had to keep shifting them both around, to avoid dancing into other couples, or stepping on passed-out partiers. But there was more to it than that. His lips were pursed, as if he didn’t quite know how to handle the song. Maybe, for once, he was listening to the lyrics.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

A little sweat was clinging to Paul’s brow, and a little more to Paul’s palm, enclosed in his. He hadn’t tried anything close to fancy, not even any turns or spins. He’d seen Paul do better than this just a few hours ago. Nerves. Except the only time Paul didn’t nerve out was in front of an audience. And this audience was too wasted to care if the two of them were tearing up the dancefloor or stumbling through each step. Paul’s tongue was poking out between his teeth again, and he wasn’t looking Gene in the face, and he wasn’t looking around the room.

Something warm was spreading in Gene, the longer he looked at Paul, the longer they danced. Stepped in time, more like. That concentration made his features seem almost sweet. Paul’s hand on his waist was fidgeting, like he’d forgotten how to hold it. Gene squeezed his shoulder, and Paul raised his head, finally, as Gene cleared his throat to speak.

“Hey. What’d you say dancing was earlier?”

Paul blinked, caught off guard enough that he stopped moving.

“Getting a feel for your partner. Mirroring them.”

“That’s right.” Gene exhaled. His fingers inched up past Paul’s shoulder, touching his cheek for a brief second before returning to his shoulder again. “Could you mirror something for me, then? Right now.”

“Yeah.” Paul had turned his head towards Gene’s hand. Was looking right at him, all big dark eyes and red lips. Red lips that were twitching up, suddenly, in the faintest ghost of a smile. “What do you want to—"

Gene inclined his head and met Paul’s lips with his own.

Paul kissed back instantly. Greedily. Gene was almost taken aback. It wasn’t ferocious so much as desperate, as though all his pent-up energy was suddenly given just a single release. Paul’s tongue licked across Gene’s lips for entrance before Gene could even get there first, hot and overwhelming. Gene dropped his hold on Paul’s hand to cup his smooth, soft jaw, fingers careful not to brush too far past it. His fingertips caught onto Paul’s curls, stiff with hairspray, yet they still somehow felt good against his fingers. The scent of his cologne, emanating off his hair and neck, was almost overwhelming, cologne and sweat and something else; for an insane moment Gene felt like he could almost smell the want on him.

Paul tightened his grip on Gene’s waist, pulling him forward until their bodies were flush. Gene’s hard-on was getting unbearable, pressing up against Paul nearly worse than no relief, because of all the things wasn’t. Gene couldn’t think straight. Could barely let himself remember who was kissing him so ardently, who he was kissing back, whose lipstick was smearing against his mouth and jaw and neck—

Gene only pulled back to get a breath in. Paul’s hand had sunk below Gene’s waist, groping at his ass through the leather fabric. Paul kept shoving his hips against him, friction that didn’t really quite manage to hit its target. Too much of a height difference. They could fix that. Fuck, they could fix that right here in the disco, in one of those basement rooms—he could fuck Paul there, against the wall, or on the floor; he didn’t care, anywhere. He murmured against Paul’s neck, lapping and kissing, not quite daring to leave a mark against his skin. Gene barely felt Paul’s ankle latch around his boot, almost as if he was laying claim, but it warmed him, nearly as much as Paul’s little hitches for breath, the needy press of his lips against his skin. Gene grunted, fingers tightening on Paul’s hair, intending on tugging him back in for another kiss when Paul’s expression shifted, dilated, glassy eyes suddenly going wide, whole body tight as piano wire. His foot went back into place on the floor, stiff as a soldier, hands seeming frozen on Gene. The color was starting to drain from his face.

“Paul? What’s wrong?”

It must have hit him. His brain must have caught up with his libido faster than Gene’s had. Gene started to let go, feeling his brow furrow, a little, hopeless shame twitching in his gut, but then Paul grabbed onto him harder, shaking his head.

“It’s not you. It’s not you, I swear.” One hand withdrew, just to point. Gene couldn’t follow Paul’s finger at first, with the slew of people, but finally he caught sight of the blond doorman from earlier, ushering someone forward, towards them. Someone cute, but not beautiful. Not a VIP. Someone he knew wouldn’t belong on her own here, any more than Paul did.

A small young woman with light brown hair.

“She’s here.”


	14. down to the bar at the place i'm at

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul's been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS' finances, Paul's comfort levels, and Gene's libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. **In this chapter:** Paul finally meets with Carol.

Paul was still trying to remember the times he’d slept with her even as he looked her over. Brownish hair in a grown-out shag, that sort of dirty light brown color that made it obvious she’d probably been towheaded as a kid, blue eyes, freckles in heaps across her nose and cheekbones. Icepick scars ran down one cheek on close inspection, reminiscent of Ace’s, pitting up her complexion. The remnants of measles or acne. She was very small, easily at least a head shorter than him, even now. Skinny figure, accentuated in a pair of jeans and a halter top. So much for the dress code he’d rambled about that morning. Younger than him, if he were going to take a guess. Not—not substantially so, maybe three or four years. She wasn’t beautiful at all, but she had that blandly cute girl-next-door look about her that sometimes was its own ticket of admission.

He’d been working towards this for days, and he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to approach her. The doorman had already backed away, disappearing as soon as he’d realized Gene saw the girl. Paul’s palms were sweating worse now than during the dance; he felt like he was about to sing at Shea Stadium. He felt Gene’s hand on his back, urging him, and finally he stepped forward and spoke.

"Hi, Carol."

She didn’t recognize him. He could tell by the way her eyes flickered from him to Gene, measuring him up. She was probably thinking that Gene was adding up girls for a threesome. She smiled in a distant, vague way, holding her hand up in a wave.

“Hi.”

“We need to talk,” Paul said, but she shook her head and turned to Gene.

“The guy at the door said Paul Stanley wanted to see me, too.”

“I do.”

“What?”

“I do want to see you.”

She looked at him. Really looked at him, staring him dead in the eye. Her mouth opened. She looked—she almost looked afraid.

“Oh, my God.” A breath. “Paul?”

Paul nodded.

“It worked? It really—” Carol stopped herself. Her gaze inched down from his face to his chest, Paul’s stomach curdling as her focus moved further down—it had never felt that bad before, being looked at, but being looked at by _her_ felt absolutely awful, like he was a specimen or an experiment. “Did it go all the…”

“Do I _look_ like I’ve got anything else there?”

She actually flinched, shaking her head. He hadn’t expected that. Thought sure she’d be gleeful as soon as she realized who he was.

“We want to talk to you.” Gene, still next to him. Paul glanced at him briefly. The lipstick smeared on his mouth and neck had to make him seem far less threatening, but Carol seemed at least a little cowed anyway. “You know exactly why.”

“I… I don’t want to talk to you. I only want to talk to Paul.”

“That’s too damn bad,” Gene snapped, but Paul raised his hand.

“No. That’s fine. We’ll talk privately.”

“Paul, I don’t think—”

“Gene, it’s okay.”

He didn’t really think it was okay, being alone with this girl. No matter how small and timid she was, that didn’t change what she’d done, what she was capable of. But he thought he’d stand a better chance of getting the curse removed if Gene wasn’t there staring daggers into her. Whatever he’d done to Carol, however he’d hurt her, it was up to him to try and smooth over, not Gene. Gene, who still hadn’t withdrawn his hand from Paul’s shoulder.

“Paul, don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid.” He turned to Carol. “Look, we’ll go to the basement and talk this over there, all right?” He’d almost bet she was familiar with that basement. Mary-Anne had said she wanted to be the next Pamela des Barres, hadn’t she? She’d probably gotten with dozens upon dozens of rockstars.

Except that didn’t feel right. There wasn’t that—Pamela’d been before his time, but Connie Hamzy, even Bebe Buell, and the weird entourage of girls he’d almost started to recognize when he’d tour parts of America over again, they all had some sort of—charm and self-confidence propping them up, at least for as long as it took to come. This girl seemed totally devoid of that. This girl reminded him, uncomfortably, of—

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I said okay. We can go downstairs.” Carol glanced, haltingly, at Gene. “I won’t hurt him.”

Gene’s expression was wary. Paul couldn’t blame him. He clasped Gene’s arm, briefly.

“I’ve got to do this myself, all right? I’ll be right back.” He squeezed Gene’s arm; for a second, just a stupid second, he wanted to kiss him. Like they really were together. Like they’d… like they’d really shared something beyond an evening and a few dances and a few kisses not five minutes ago. Something in Paul’s stomach felt all mangled, whether because he couldn’t manage to do it or because he wanted to, he wasn’t sure. Gene inclined his head in a slight nod.

“You’ve got twenty minutes.” Gene was directing the words at Carol, not Paul. “I’m coming down there if he’s not back by then.”

Paul started to say he didn’t have a watch, but Gene was unlatching his own and putting it in his hand before he could. The silver felt heavy in his palm, heavy and warm from Gene’s skin. It was just as well that he hadn’t tried to put it on him; it would’ve been loose enough to be laughable. Paul nodded.

“I’ll see you, Gene. C’mon.”

\--

It felt weird, going anywhere without Gene at his side. Made him feel bare, somehow. Two girls walking together down the VIP floor, without anything recognizable about either of them, was ironically enough to garner quick glances from the people around. Paul sped up his steps more than he needed to, dimly satisfied at the way Carol was having to scurry to keep up with him, heading down the stairs to the main dancefloor, and then past that, to the basement.

He’d thought a doorman might be there to block the way for non-VIPs, but there was no one at all. Maybe Ace had been right when he’d said Rubell’s workers were as loaded as he was. Maybe they were just lucky. He wouldn’t question it, holding the railing in one hand, Gene’s watch in the other. Twenty minutes. He stood at the foot of the steps, waiting on Carol, and then, once she’d descended, started knocking on the doors that lined the basement. A whole hallway full of them. He didn’t stop knocking until he came to a door where he didn’t hear an answer back, and he opened that door, turning on the light, looking the room up and down before gesturing for Carol to come inside, and then shutting the door on them both.

The room was small, the carpet dirty and full of ground-in glitter and smeared stains. There was a coke spoon on the floor, a box of tissues, and a bare king-sized mattress. Studio 54’s luxury basement suites, tawdry and disgusting as a tenement. With nowhere else to sit, Paul lowered himself onto the mattress next to Carol, sitting on one corner while she sat on the other. Her knees were bent, ankles up against the side of the mattress. His legs were stretched out but closed on the floor, more from concern about what might be crawling around on the carpet than any lousy efforts at ladylike fakery.

It wasn’t the way he’d wanted to confront her, in a grimy little room, wearing a dress that made it seem, maybe, like he wanted to be like this. Odd as it was after what she’d done, she seemed almost like she was the one afraid of him. She didn’t say a word at first, just looked at him, gaze right on his face now, hands resting her knees, watching him as he put on Gene’s watch, having to clasp it several inches below his wrist just to keep it from falling off. He wondered what she was seeing, if she had a better idea of what was under the surface than Gene did, just by virtue of having done this to him. He wondered if she was disappointed, when she finally spoke.

“You look nice.”

Paul didn’t answer.

“I didn’t think you’d look that nice.”

“Did you think I’d come out here in a sack?”

She bit her lip, flinching, shaking her head. For a bizarre moment she looked like she was about to apologize to him, and then she seemed to steady herself.

“I was just surprised. I didn’t really think it would turn out.”

“Well, it did.” Paul couldn’t manage to catch himself. He was scared, sure, but he was pissed-off, too. He’d counted on her crowing over the damage like some corny Batman villain. That would’ve been so easy to smart back at. But this fragile slip of a girl that still seemed cowed by him—this girl, instead, at the crux of all his problems—there was no satisfaction in snapping at her, any more than there’d be from tearing a piece of paper or blowing out a candle. “Carol—what the hell did I even do to you to deserve this?”

Carol shook her head again, rubbing her hands up and down her jean-clad thighs, like an anxious athlete, like she was trying to gear herself up, almost. The words seemed to tumble out of her throat, like pebbles and shells pushed out by the tide.

“Y-you don’t even know. Mary-Anne said you wouldn’t. She said I could try whatever weird hex I wanted, and you’d never know who did it to you, or why. I guess she was half-right.”

“Are you going to tell me? Look, Carol, whatever it was, I’m—”

“You’re sorry?” She shook her head. Her face was starting to flush, body stiffening. That weakness to her, that fear, seemed to be fading out, blue eyes narrowed. Every sentence seemed to be fueling her, getting louder and louder. “You think you can just apologize and I’ll reverse it for you? Y-you can just stare at me real sad and I’ll feel bad for you?”

“I can’t apologize if I don’t know what I did!”

“That’s your whole damn problem! That’s all of it!” Carol reached over, grabbing his arm. He was too surprised to jerk away. She let go for him, after a squeeze that, even now, in this body, was hardly tight enough to hurt at all. “You don’t know anything! You _aren’t_ anything! People—people wanna be like you! Girls wanna sleep with you! They think there’s something you’ve got that they can get at, but there’s not!”

“What are you talking about?”

Her lip was wobbling, her face completely red, all the way to her neck. He was hoping she was high, hoping he had some leverage, somehow. He didn’t think she was.

“You know what they say about you in the magazines?” she blurted. “They say you’re so, so sensitive. They say you’re shy. That you’re wanting to commit to someone, but you just haven’t found the right girl yet.”

“That’s—”

“I believed it.” Carol bit her lip. “I believed all of it. W-why shouldn’t I have believed it? What the hell else did I have going for me? I was flunking out of college.”

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

“You’re not sorry at all! You’re just sorry I did this to you!”

“I—” Paul started, then swallowed the rest. She was right. But more than that, he wasn’t in a position to argue her on anything. She could make him a girl permanently. Or do something even worse to him. Better to try and let her get it all out.

The funny thing was, the sad thing was, he wasn’t sure how. He wasn’t used to anyone spilling on him. Peter, maybe, in the early days, but besides him… people didn’t confide in him. Even Gene didn’t. Luckily, the girl didn’t need any prodding.

“I was flunking out of college,” she repeated, quieter now. “My dad had just died. That’s how I got into the occult. I’d try and contact him. But I never got him. That was two years ago.”

Paul opened his mouth to apologize again, then, figuring she’d yell, he reached over, hesitantly vying for her hand. Her mouth wobbled, and she yanked her hand back before he’d even grasped it.

“My mom was… trying to get me to withdraw from all my classes and come home. But I didn’t. I just kept skipping them. I’d go downtown, watch movies, go to the record store. That’s when I saw you.”

“Were we doing a signing?”

“Yeah. But I hadn’t heard of you. I was just there to buy an album.”

“What album?”

“ _Have You Never Been Mellow_.”

Oh, God. Paul managed a tight smile.

“Olivia Newton-John.”

“That’s right. I-I wasn’t going to get your album, ’cause I didn’t know who you were, but… you were all at the front of the store, and—I was holding her album, and… you waved at me.” Her voice had softened up as she kept going, that hard edge whittling to nothing. “It’s stupid.”

He wanted to agree. It was outstandingly stupid. If every girl he’d ever waved at hated him half as much as this chick did, he’d have been hung, drawn, and quartered years ago. But the look in her eyes was so miserable, and his body was so heavily on the line, that he couldn’t manage a word.

“That’s not why I did this to you, anyway. I got your album and all of you signed it. _Dressed to Kill_. You were right at the end—then you… you said you had a show tomorrow. So I went and—”

“And I picked you up after, right?”

She snorted.

“No. I was too far back. You didn’t even see me.” Her hand was on the mattress now. “But that’s what got it started. I’d get all the music magazines. I kept looking out for KISS. I-I wanted to know all about you.”

“Just because I spoke to you?” Paul swallowed, shook his head. “Carol… Carol, KISS was nothing back then. If _Alive_ hadn’t been a hit, we—”

“You were something to me. I didn’t care what you were to anybody else.” Carol wasn’t looking him in the eye. She was staring at the floor, or maybe at his heels, her voice almost on the verge of wobbling again. “My… my roommate, she—she still had that old Mark Spitz poster on the wall. The one with where he’s wearing all his medals, you know? So why couldn’t I want you? At least you were _around_! At least I knew I could get you, if I kept trying!

“So I kept trying. I had lots of time. I got kicked out of college the end of that semester. My mom’d given me some of the insurance money after Dad died. I spent that whole summer chasing musicians around.” She took a ragged breath. “I saw Lynyrd Skynyrd twice, I saw the Stones at the Garden, Fleetwood Mac, Aerosmith… all those guys. I figured out how to get backstage. And then… that next year, when KISS was back in town—I got you.”

He was starting to remember her now. She hadn’t been any prettier then, their first time together. He remembered opting for her because she seemed to want it most, the way he tried to aim guitar picks at the fans that seemed most desperate for them. But he’d only noticed her at all on the outset because she was very short, the shortest girl in the entire Coop that evening. It had appealed to him, in some weird way—kind of made her endearing. Just a little bit of a chick.

“I picked you up. That was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one I carried out of the Coop.”

She looked a little startled, but she nodded.

“You’re the only one I ever did that to.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I…” Paul hesitated.

He’d been in a good mood that evening, really good. Gene had gotten to the Coop first, as was typical. Then Ace—he knew because he’d passed him in the hallway, face halfway made up and a girl on his arm. He didn’t know about Peter. He’d seen the girl, he’d seen Carol, staring at him with a look that was practically beatific. Like those weird Catholic icons. It should have turned him off, but paired with her height and build, it had just given him an idea. He’d pointed at her; she’d started to walk towards him, and then he picked her up bridal-style, carrying her past one hotel threshold and to another. The other girls in the Coop just about lost it. And Carol, Carol was giggling.

It hadn’t been hard to carry her from the Coop to his hotel room. She probably didn’t weigh much more than ninety pounds. He hadn’t had to sit her down once until putting her on the bed. He remembered being a little pleased with his own theatrics, remembered thinking that it was too bad his taste usually ran to taller girls; otherwise, he might have tried the trick again.

But that was the only thing he remembered from that first evening with her. He couldn’t remember tears or her having trouble getting off or anything; it was just a typical night. He exhaled, trying not to be intimidated by the look in her eyes, the disgust there, the bitterness.

“Carol, I—look, I don’t understand. What was the problem? What didn’t I live up to?”

Carol looked at him. Really looked at him, blue eyes watery.

“Nothing. You were just like all the magazines said.”

“So—”

“You were really good. Well, I thought you were. It’s not like I could compare.”

“You said you—”

“I said I figured out how to get backstage. I didn’t say I slept with all those guys to do it.” Her mouth twisted acridly. “I wasn’t that cheap. I was just waiting on you.”

“Waiting on…” There was a prickling down his spine as it hit him. “Wait, you… were you a virgin?”

Her mouth opened like she was about to speak, or about to sob. She closed it and nodded instead, tears dripping down her cheeks. Paul’s stomach started to churn. He didn’t know how to answer.

“Carol, if I got you pregnant, if you—caught something, I—”

“You didn’t get me pregnant!” Her voice cracked. “You didn’t give me anything! Y-you just slept with me!”

“Then—”

“You took my virginity! Then you got up and took a shower! Asked me to leave like I was a whore! It didn’t mean anything to you! A-all the time I’d spent! All the money I’d spent! Reading about you! Figuring out about you, how t-to get to you—and it didn’t mean a goddamn thing! You only wanted me long enough to get off!” She was crying now. “I-I wanted it to be different! I wanted to _mean_ something to you!”

“Carol, stop—”

“A-and I _knew_ I wouldn’t! I knew I’d be like e-every other girl, but I didn’t want… I-I thought if I could… if I could have you, just once, it’d be enough for me. Just once. But having you made me feel even worse than before!”

He sat there stunned, without a word. One hand shifted awkwardly again, but he didn’t reach for her this time. Instead, he grabbed a tissue from the box next to the mattress, placing it on her thigh. Her fingers clamped around the offering, but she didn’t bring it to her face at first.

“I wasted myself on you. I knew that before you told me to leave. Y-you’d be in some other city the next night, fooling around w-with some other girl. Your breakfast meant more to you than I did.” She rubbed the tissue against her eyes, streaking her eyeliner. “I couldn’t stand it. I threw up as soon as I got out of the hotel.”

Paul’s throat felt dry. He couldn’t say she was wrong, because she wasn’t. He couldn’t say he hadn’t ever thought about it, because he had. He had wondered. He did know he slept with virgins on tour sometimes, just from body language and, sometimes, from the blood. He thought they knew what they were in for, assumed they’d made their choice with just as much awareness as any Butter Queen or Sweet Connie. He didn’t drug girls; he didn’t fuck drunk girls, and he didn’t try to hurt them. But he didn’t give a damn about them, either. He hadn’t in years and years. They came with the tour. Pick the girl like a room service entrée. Never think about the after, or the kind of place she lived in, or the things she wanted—because thinking about that might stir his conscience, might make her matter.

“Then I went home a-and just went to pieces. I even called up my mom.” She sniffled, wiping her nose on a clean edge of the napkin. “I didn’t tell her what happened. But she told me to come back home. I did for awhile, but… it didn’t help. I just kept thinking about you. Going through all those girls l-like we were toilet paper. You and all your stupid bandmates. You and all the other rockstars. Claiming you were looking for the right one. All that bullshit. I wanted to hurt you like you’d hurt me. And I figured out how to do it.”

Paul swallowed thickly.

“It took months to get it all worked out. Marbas is so particular.” Her eyes closed. “I had to make all these offerings just to summon him right. He thought the whole thing was… was funny. That’s why I didn’t really think he’d done it.”

“So you did conjure Marbas.”

She looked a little surprised he knew the reference.

“Yeah. Marbas told me what I needed. How to get to you. I knew you’d come before you walked into CBGB that night.” Her lips tilted up. “You were better that second time, you know. Maybe just ’cause he told me what you liked. You didn’t carry me anywhere. But you offered to let me shower with you, after. I almost changed my mind about cursing you.”

“I wish you had.”

“I don’t.” She wiped her eyes on the tissue again, seeming to recover a little. “It didn’t turn out like I thought it would. You haven’t had it that bad.”

“How the hell can you say that to me? You ruined my life! How can you have the… the nerve to—”

“What’s happened to you?” She twisted the tissue in her hand, crumpling and tearing it. “You’ve got a nice dress. You’re pretty. Y-you’re still getting the VIP floor at Studio 54. You didn’t even have to do anything nasty for it.”

“I’ve got a tour I can’t go on. I’ve got family I can’t see. You can’t—”

“How come you’re even here, Paul?” she interrupted, as if she hadn’t even heard him. “It’s ’cause you just got Gene to take care of you, right? I bet that’s how it’s been this whole time.”

Heat seemed like it flooded his throat. _Got him to take care of you._ Like… like he was just some dog with a limp, scurrying into the house for comfort and petting. Like he wasn’t capable. Like he had to have Gene there, like he was screwing around, just screwing around with what he knew Gene wanted out of him, just to get ahead, just to get his body back. His guts felt like they were twisting and coiling inside him. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t like that. He wanted to burst into the truth, as lowly as it was, and he couldn’t get the words out. Easier to let her think he was rotten than to own up to—

“Gene—”

“I saw you kissing him.” She said it slowly, still tattering what was left of the tissue. “It’s not just the girls you’d hurt. You’d use anyone to get what you wanted, wouldn’t you? Even him. Y-you really did deserve what I did.”

“Carol, it’s—”

“I won’t take it off.”

Paul stared. His heart felt like it had dropped somewhere down into his twisting guts. He was breathing hard through his nose, mouth twitching. He hadn’t even asked yet. He hadn’t even asked yet, and she’d decided. His gaze drooped, unbidden, to his hands, fingers still long, wrists too thin to even hold Gene’s watch on them, not his hands at all, not really. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want to be like this. Not for forever. He didn’t want to face—

“You’ve got to!”

He hadn’t touched her since that ill-fated reach for her hand earlier. Still trying the time-worn ways to get a girl’s attention, even though it couldn’t possibly work now. Still not really aware that he didn’t have the presence he’d taken for granted his whole life. He turned on the bed, legs splayed out to the side of the mattress, and grabbed her bare shoulders. She bit her lip, drawing back a bit, but didn’t try to push him away.

“You can’t leave me like this! I-I can’t live the rest of my life like this! I don’t want to!”

“I don’t think you’ll have to, Paul.”

“What are you—” Paul stopped, eyes widening, hands shifting down from her shoulders. “Carol, please. I’ll—I’ll pay you, I’ll do anything, all right? I’ll—what do you want? Do you want to fuck me again? Date me? I’ll do that. Whatever you want. I can’t—please, you have to—”

“You think I’d be hot for you when you’re like this?” She snorted. “You caused it. You can fix it.”

“ _You_ caused it, damn it! You can fix it!”

She shook her head.

“You weren’t paying attention. It took months to summon Marbas. He won’t want to come back to undo it for me. Not this fast.” She exhaled. “If you want to break the curse, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

“How?”

“It won’t be hard on you, Paul, don’t worry. I’m surprised you didn’t get there already.”

He didn’t hesitate. Even her slight got shoved to the side in his eagerness.

“What do I need to do?”

She shifted, leaning back and resting most of her weight on her arms, against the mattress. Posture that shouldn’t have seemed stiff at all but somehow did.

“Depend on somebody else the way I depended on you. The way all those girls depended on you. Give yourself up just like they did. That’s fair, right?”

Paul sat there stunned. His palms were sweating.

“Give myself up. You mean—”

“Give up your virginity. Get fucked, Paul.” Her mouth was unsteady again, twitching at the corners in her effort not to cry. “You’re still a guy, so maybe you won’t even care. But I hope you do. I hope you feel like I did. I hope you feel like you wasted it on someone that didn’t give a damn. T-that’d be enough for me.”

“That’s what I need to do?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s all?”

Carol took the pieces of tissue, wadding them up and pushing them into her pocket. Then she stood up, biting her lip.

“Yeah. That’s all.”

He started to get up himself. His throat still felt hot, heart and guts all out of alignment, utterly uncertain. Whatever sparks of anger she’d had before were gone already, and she seemed smaller now than ever, like a battered kite, flimsy, forlorn. Someone who’d put all her hopes in something that couldn’t pan out.

He knew who she reminded him of. He’d known the whole time.

“Carol.”

“This is one room you’re not showing me out of,” she said quietly, and walked out the door.


	15. sittin', drinkin', superficially thinkin'

He sat there on the mattress for longer than he needed to, staring at his hands, gaze traveling up his wrists to his forearms to his shoulders, sloping down dully from there to his cleavage. Assessing the same damages he’d gotten accustomed to over the last seven days. But it was different now. It wasn’t an effort at calming himself down the way it had been at first, a bizarre sort of compare and contrast. Reassurance that he wasn’t completely unrecognizable, if only to himself. He hadn’t been male model material as a guy; he wasn’t Playboy material as a girl. Same moles, same scars, same bad chin. Top-heavy like he’d always been. Basically devoid of a waistline like he’d always been. All the old hated imperfections had carried over, right down to the microtia. It had been a cold comfort then, but now he was ticking off each flaw as another demerit, another reason he might get turned down at the pass.

Intellectually, none of that was going to make a difference. It didn’t take much for girls, if they wanted it. Not looks, not money, not anything. It wouldn’t take much for him. He could get laid. It wouldn’t even be the first time he’d fooled around with another guy.

It wouldn’t even be the first time he’d fooled around with another guy while he was like this.

The door opened without warning. Paul jerked back on the mattress, scrambling unsteadily to his feet, expecting it to be Carol standing there, come back to throw another couple bitter words his way, or a drunken VIP.

“Paul?”

Instead, it was Ace. He was sweaty, with his shirt disheveled, belt and fly undone, hair slightly matted. No underwear, which wasn’t surprising, but the sum total wasn’t a sight he’d seen in awhile. He must have been in one of the other rooms earlier.

“Hey.”

Ace did a bit of a double-take at the sight of him, eyes lingering on his chest before he seemed to right himself again, stepping fully into the room.

“Hey, listen, I saw a chick with freckles coming out of here crying, was that her?”

That sounded about right. Paul’s stomach curdled.

“Yeah. I just talked to her.”

“But you’re not back.” Ace had his hands out, gesturing towards his own imaginary breasts as if he needed to. Maybe he thought Carol had cursed him into thinking he was normal again. “She didn’t turn you back.”

“No kidding.”

“What the hell did you tell her, man?” Ace paused. “What the hell did you do to her, anyway?”

“Nothing.”

“’M not buying it. She’s got Paul Stanley, Junior in the fucking crib at home, and she’s mad he ain’t got your eyes.”

“There’s no baby.” No use explaining it to Ace. He wouldn’t understand. Paul didn’t think he got it himself, not really. Or maybe he just didn’t want to.

Ace tilted his head.

“Whatever. Her husband leave her after she fooled around with you, then?”

“There’s no husband, either. I just hurt her, that’s all.”

“Real specific. Well, if you won’t tell me…” Ace drifted off idly, yanking a hand through his hair. Paul was oddly grateful that Ace hadn’t bothered zipping his pants back up, not because he wanted a look at his dick, but because it was a weird bit of normalcy. A sign Ace actually saw him for who he was. “Do you wanna have me go after her? Fuck, Paulie, if she didn’t think you were gonna pay her enough to fix you, then I’ll—”

“It’s not like that.” Paul clasped the watch on his forearm. Twenty minutes. He had all of two left. He didn’t want to stay here thinking about it. He didn’t want to tell Ace. “Look, she told me how. I’ll get it taken care of.”

“But what’s she want you to do?”

“I said I’ll get it taken care of.” He crossed the room, pushing past Ace to get to the door. “Ace, I’ve got to go.”

“Jesus, is it that bad? Hang on there. Lemme get Peter and Gene, we’ll help you out, this isn’t all on you, y’know.”

“It is all on me.”

He could hear Ace fumbling to follow him, but Ace wasn’t fast at all. Ace was prone to stumble around even without heels or alcohol. He had to be loaded right now, loaded and tired from getting off. No way he’d stayed sober tonight for his sake. No way.

But he didn’t have a reason for running from him. He wasn’t scared of Ace, just scared of what he represented. Another guy whose current livelihood now depended on Paul fucking someone. Anyone. It didn’t matter who. It shouldn’t matter who.

Paul ran straight into the dance floor in a bid to get rid of him. A bid that worked. The crowd of writhing bodies swirled around him, enveloping him, a sick sea of warm arms. He had to shove at and past what felt like dozens of people, but Ace wasn’t behind him anymore. He couldn’t even hear Ace calling him over the blaring music.

But that wouldn’t matter for long. Even if he fell or just got distracted, it wouldn’t take long for Ace to get back up to the VIP floor. He had to hurry. The blond doorman was back at the floor’s entrance, happy enough to let him past. Racing upstairs, he grabbed Gene, who looked pale and worried, tugging him by the sleeve.

“Paul?”

He took off the watch, putting it in Gene’s hand.

“Let’s get out of here. I got what I needed.”

\--

Paul’s hand in his didn’t feel as comfortable as usual as they stepped out of Studio 54. He looked distant, harried. But every time Gene tried to push for an answer, he just shook his head and told him to wait. He rolled up the glass partition almost as soon as they got into the limo.

“What did she say? She’s lifting it, isn’t she?”

“She’s not lifting it. She’s having me do it.”

Oh, no. They’d need those spellbooks and sigils after all. Gene’s heart thudded in his chest.

“If we have to, then we have to.”

“ _I_ have to, not you.” Weird how Paul was sounding both more and less like himself with every passing day. That old acerbic clip he’d first heard out of him at seventeen (“ _yeah_ , I write songs”) was inching back in. “It’s not that bad.”

“So what do you have to do, then? Summon a demon or something? Pledge your soul to Satan?”

Paul didn’t crack a smile.

“No. I just have to sleep with somebody.”

Gene raised his head.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” A dry laugh. “I dunno. I guess you and the guys don’t have to worry about the tour now.”

Gene let out a breath. _That’s great_ was almost on his tongue. _All right_ was a close second. But a look at Paul stopped him from either. For something so simple, so easy, he didn’t look happy about it. He didn’t even look relieved. He wasn’t wearing his usual distracting pout, either. He just looked… deflated, somehow. He looked like he’d just gotten stood up for senior prom.

Maybe he just wanted approval. Bolstering-up. Gene’s lips were suddenly dry as he started up again.

“What do you want to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you want to get it taken care of?” Gene hesitated slightly, waiting on a suggestion that Paul wasn’t offering. Stupid to hope. Despite getting him off last night, despite the kissing earlier, Paul didn’t seem to be considering Gene as an option. Probably better for both of them, really. He’d have enough to sort out as it was once Paul got back to normal. “Pick some guy up at a bar tomorrow?”

“Pick up some guy?” Paul repeated. He almost looked—offended, maybe even hurt.

“Or… would a girl work?” Gene didn’t know if it would, but maybe that was the real source of Paul’s distress, the thought of having to get penetrated while he was like this. Maybe it made him feel vulnerable. Maybe he wanted to reclaim some of his masculinity before he actually had it back in the literal sense. God knew Gene had robbed him of plenty of autonomy without even meaning to, directing him on where to go every single day, making all the phone calls for him, buying his food, clothes, everything.

Yeah, that was probably exactly what Paul wanted, to get to sleep with a woman again. It wouldn’t be that hard to orchestrate; there were plenty of lesbian bars around. He’d be safer picking up a girl than a guy. It might even be fun for him, a weird bit of fetishistic wish-fulfillment. Picturing Paul with another chick wasn’t a bad mental image, either. He’d probably be shy about it at first, lying down, tan nipples peaked, breasts heaving, as some pretty little thing pushed apart his thighs, lapping and sucking against his warm, slick folds, it—

“I’d be a fucking lousy lay for any dyke right now.”

“You would’ve been a lot lousier last Tuesday.”

Paul looked away, shoulders slumping. He kept twisting the skirt portion of the dress between his hands, then staring at his hands, something Gene had never known him to do before. He had a myriad of other tics, like sticking his tongue past his teeth when he was nervous or trying to concentrate, but this wasn’t one of them.

“I’m tired of going to clubs, Gene. And I’m tired of involving other people.”

“Then…”

“We could take care of it ourselves at home.”

Gene’s mouth went dry. His dick, the perpetual traitor, was half-hard just at the thought of fucking him, his leather pants as unyielding as a vice trap. He shifted his legs, but it didn’t help. Not that it really mattered much. Paul still hadn’t glanced his way again.

“You want to?”

Paul was silent at first.

“It-it makes more sense, doesn’t it? You’re right here. And I’m not stupid, I know you wanna—”

“But do you want to?”

“I wanna get back to normal.” Evasiveness too obvious to be believed. “I’ll let you. You’ve been wanting to this whole time, anyway, might as well get it out of the way.”

He couldn’t argue with that. But there was something weird about the way Paul was putting it. _Get it out of the way_ , like it was a chore. It hadn’t felt like a chore when he’d gotten him off prior. It sure as hell hadn’t felt like a chore to kiss Paul during the dance. Or to have Paul kiss back, eager and wanting, pressing up tight against him, trying so hard to leave no space between them. It hadn’t been a chore at all. He’d liked it. He’d liked it a whole lot.

He’d thought they might sleep together if the curse lasted long enough. Had been within a hair’s breadth of suggesting it just before Paul saw Carol. But he’d figured there was a good chance they’d fall into it some afternoon or evening anyway, if not on the dance floor. Something banal and domestic. Laying around in bed turning into fooling around, turning into fucking, just as natural and uncomplicated as it would’ve gone with any girlfriend. Even more so. Gene hadn’t had a girlfriend in years that he hadn’t slept with long before she’d gotten the title.

Gene hadn’t really thought past that. But now, knowing that sleeping with Paul would end the curse entirely… it felt funny. Uncomfortable. Like it’d just thrown a wrench in the way everything was going. He’d still do it, sure, but combined with the way Paul was acting, it didn’t sit well.

He reached over, tapping Paul’s arm. Paul jerked a bit, turning to face him.

“It’ll be good. Hey, we can even take a picture if you want.”

“A picture?” Paul’s brows furrowed.

“Yeah, for my photo albums.”

He’d meant it as a joke. But Paul stiffened up in response, lips drawn in a tight line, and he turned his head towards the window.

“Sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s fine.”

\--

The rest of the limo ride was quiet. He didn’t try to touch Paul any, no more reassuring taps or handholds. Not that it mattered. Something seemed to be already ruined.

By the time the driver had stopped at Paul’s, Gene almost asked Paul if he’d changed his mind, or wanted to wait. He wouldn’t have blamed him any. But Paul’s mind seemed set. As soon as they were back in his house, Paul was stripping off his shoes and pantyhose in the foyer, tossing them in the floor. He was waiting on Gene, watching him with a gaze Gene couldn’t really read, as he tugged off his boots.

“Give me just a second,” Gene protested. “We’ll get there.”

“Okay.”

Gene followed him to his room once he’d gotten rid of his boots and socks. He sat down on the bed and started unbuttoning his shirt, feeling weird about it—he didn’t normally strip completely when he slept with someone, and maybe Paul wouldn’t appreciate being treated any differently. Or maybe he would. Paul wasn’t so much as looking in his direction, sitting next to him on the bed’s edge, hair gathered over one shoulder. Gene figured it was so he could unzip his dress, but Paul hadn’t yet reached behind him to tug the zipper down.

“Are you sure about this, Paul?”

“Yeah. Course I’m sure.” Stiffly, Paul shifted backwards, until he was fully on the bed, long legs splayed apart but somehow tense. 

Gene finally got his shirt off. Then Paul seemed to react again, shifting to his knees, one hand clasping Gene’s bare shoulder while the other started to unzip and shove down his pants, leaving them hanging just a bit past his hips. Gene reached behind Paul, fingers headed for the zipper of his dress, but Paul shook his head.

“Don’t.”

“Hey, this is a little uneven here,” Gene tried to joke. The consternation on Paul’s face made him stop. Maybe Paul was just nervous and gearing himself up. He’d at least have to take off his panties to fuck.

“I’ll get to it, okay?”

“Okay. Take it easy.”

Gene took a breath as Paul’s fingers reached his boxers. Tension was still practically emanating from Paul, even as Paul began to yank them down. It just made Gene feel all the more wary. He hadn’t gone for a kiss or a grope or anything; the only touching Paul was doing at all was just to try and get Gene’s clothes off.

He grabbed Paul by the wrist before he’d gotten his boxers more than an inch or two down. His grip wasn’t hard, but Paul froze up anyway, instantly dropping his hold on Gene’s boxers, looking strained, almost caught.

“Gene—"

“Hold on,” he said quickly. “We’ve got to talk first. How do you wanna do this?”

“I don’t care. However you want.”

“However I want?”

“It’s not _that_ much leeway, is it?” Paul’s mouth twisted. “I’m up for it. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Would you stop asking if I’m sure?”

“Okay. Okay.” Last night hadn’t been like this. Forget last night, two hours ago hadn’t been like this. Gene wasn’t sure what to do. He reached out, hesitating before slipping a hand underneath the dress, past the nightie and the bra, cupping one breast. Paul didn’t really react. Just sat there, stiff as ever, and after a second or two, he withdrew his hand.

“You don’t want foreplay?”

“It’s not that.”

“I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want it, but—”

“Look, it’s fine. Touch me wherever. I told you I don’t care. Can’t you just go for it? What’s holding you up?”

“You are. You’re acting strange.” Oh. Oh, wait a minute. Gene felt like he was William Tell without the expertise, endlessly trying to shoot a target blind, but he thought he might have hit on it. An explanation for why Paul didn’t want to strip. It still didn’t quite feel right, what with how Paul was picking out low-cut tops and short-shorts of his own accord, and it didn’t account for all of his behavior, but—“Do you want the lights off?”

“I haven’t fucked around in the dark since I was nineteen.” Paul’s expression changed as soon as the words fell out of his mouth. “Not… not actual fucking.”

Not last night, he meant. Gene nodded.

“Then…” God, this was awkward. “I don’t know how to make you comfortable. What do you want here?”

“Nothing! I told you, it’s fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

“I am. You’ve got millions on the line here. Go ahead.”

“It’s not about the money.” Bewildering just to say that, and more bewildering still to mean it. Paul stiffened like he was expecting an injection. “Something’s not right. I’m not going to do this unless you’re really up for it.”

“I am up for it! Christ, what do _you_ want? A striptease?” Paul yanked his bra straps down past his shoulders, unhooking the clasps in the back, pulling the bra out from under the dress through the sleeves. He tossed it against the wall. Gene looked away, but Paul grabbed his arm. “Go for it. Why won’t you go for it?”

“You’re scared, that’s why.”

“I’m not scared! What the hell do I have to be scared of?”

“I don’t—”

“You think I’m afraid of being hurt, is that it?” Paul snorted. “I can take that.”

“That’s not exactly—”

“Try taking it up the ass sometime, that’s a lot worse than—”

“I don’t mean that kind of hurt.”

Paul didn’t respond immediately. For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the insistent tick of the clock on the nightstand. Paul had let go of his arm at some point, his hands finding and clasping his own knees instead.

“Don’t be an idiot, Gene. Don’t turn me down because you don’t think I can handle it after.”

“Paul, listen,” Gene started, reaching for Paul’s hand. Paul’s fingers curled against his knee, but he didn’t pull away. “It’s not about handling it. You’re stressed out, and that chick made it worse. We can try again tomorrow, if you want.”

“I want to right now.”

“No, you don’t.”

Paul drew his hand back from beneath Gene’s.

“How the hell would you know what I want? I’m fucking throwing myself at you. Isn’t that good enough? Can’t you do it for me? Y-you’ve done everything else!”

“Not like this.”

Paul got up from the bed, stalking out the bedroom door. Gene yanked up his pants and followed him, grabbing the back of his arm.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.” Paul yanked his arm away, walking faster. He grabbed the jacket Gene had bought him from where he’d left it on the living room couch, snatching up his keys and wallet from the coffee table. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

“Paul, don’t.”

“Don’t what? You won’t do it for me.” A rattled gasp for breath as Paul yanked the jacket on. “You’ve got no say in it.”

“It’s late. I don’t want you going out there—”

“Without you chaperoning?” Paul started to laugh, the sound strange and throaty. “You don’t think I can do anything. You want to pick someone out for me? Scope them out?”

“No!”

“I bet y-you’d rather me stay a girl. I won’t. You can bet your ass I won’t.”

“I don’t—Paul, that’s not it, something’s bothering you. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“There’s nothing to regret. Fifteen fucking minutes and it’ll be over.” Paul was stepping into the heels he’d kicked away in the foyer earlier. Gene reached for his arm one last time, hand lingering in the air. “You don’t understand a damn thing. You think I—y-you think—” he started, then wrenched open the door, slamming it shut in Gene’s face.

He could have stopped him. Grabbed him at the door, or even yanked him back inside from the driveway. Maybe he should have. But he didn’t want to humiliate Paul any more than he already had. Didn’t want to manhandle him, didn’t know what he would’ve done afterward. Paul didn’t want to talk, that much had been obvious. He might have tried to throw Gene out of the house next. He wouldn’t have gotten anywhere with him.

Paul had left his stockings on the floor. Gene picked them up, tracing a finger across a run right down the side of one leg. Then he crumpled them in his hand and walked back to Paul’s bedroom, before he had a chance to see the taillights of Paul’s car disappear into the night.


	16. about the rinsed-out blonde on my left

Paul drove for half an hour at least without a destination in mind. He only stopped to get gas, handing the attendant the last five-dollar bill in his wallet. It didn’t even fill the tank completely, but he was past caring.

He felt like he was going to be sick. His eyes were watering up, and he blinked back the tears. He hadn’t cried this whole time, not since Gene had come. He wasn’t going to cry now.

Gene didn’t understand. He’d never understand. That was to his credit, really, not having any idea, thinking it was some bullshit about him being afraid, or not wanting to be touched. Poor, stupid Gene, who wasn’t stupid at all, who just had an idiot for a bandmate and a best friend, an idiot who’d decided a taste of what he wanted was better than nothing at all.

Except he’d been fooling himself. Just like Carol. Paul couldn’t have been happy with a taste. He’d started to realize that as soon as Gene had agreed to fuck him. But it had really hit him when Gene had joked about the photo album. Just—just sticking him in there with all those girls, one more nude Polaroid out of hundreds. Gene wanted him. Sure he did. Wanted him just exactly as much as he wanted anyone else with a pair of tits, just long enough for a lay. Just as long as Paul himself had wanted Carol or any other groupie. Once Gene had him, once the mystery was gone, the curse resolved, there’d be nothing left. Not even residual interest. The only difference was, they’d have to keep seeing each other after. Sitting down at business meetings. Posing for pictures. Leaning into the same mics. Applying makeup backstage. He’d have to live the rest of his life with Gene right there, knowing he’d never want to be with him again.

He’d been sickened by the thought. He’d wanted to be strong enough to turn Gene down, to—value himself enough to not want someone who’d only want him once, but he hadn’t been. Every time he’d felt like saying something, he’d swallowed it. On the bed, he’d tried to approach it clinically, to hurt himself less, just a series of actions with nothing attached to them. He’d thought Gene might not even sense something was wrong, since he was getting what he wanted, the image at least of a girl stripping him down and promising herself to him, like some old fairy tale. Three days of toting him around, rewarded with an easy lay and a broken spell. But for all Paul had insisted he was fine, Gene hadn’t believed him.

Paul had kept on anyway. Outright begged. And Gene had kept turning him down like the gentleman he wasn’t, for his sake, for the band’s sake, for whatever.

Better this way anyway. No hard feelings. He’d go to a bar just like Gene had suggested. Get a guy to fuck him, turn back and leave. Gene would get to go home knowing KISS had its frontman back in tour-worthy condition. Paul would get to keep his house and his money and maybe even that visit with his family. And in the end, they’d all go back on the road and forget any of this ever happened. Enough women, enough sane women, Playmates and catalog models, no more starfuckers, and he could convince himself he hadn’t wanted Gene at all, like that was just another side-effect of the curse.

His stomach lurched in protest. He wasn’t yet enough of a bastard to lie to himself that grotesquely. He’d wanted Gene years before he’d woken up in this body.

He kept thinking as he weaved through the late-night traffic. Kept thinking, even though he didn’t want to. Their trip to the mountains lingered caramel-thick in his mind. He’d been eighteen. Winter of ’70. He’d skipped school for the chance to hitchhike again with Gene, a fun but pointless trip in the mountains with some chicks they’d met prior. One that Gene seemed to dig, though she wasn’t pretty at all. They’d ended up in the rundown house the girl was renting, spending the night there, and cold as it was, Gene had a plan to at least warm himself up.

He’d told Gene not to try to make it with the girl. _She might not like you. She might get pissed-off and kick us both out, and then where would we be?_ And Gene had nodded along, but about an hour later, Paul had woken up among the moth-eaten blankets on the floor to Gene gone and the muffled sound of talking from a door or two away. An awful mechanical screech, like a microphone on the fritz. And, a few moments later, the sounds of grunts and low moans. He’d gotten the girl after all. A good time, it had sounded like. Back then, Paul hadn’t had anything to compare it to but his own jackoff sessions. He’d been desperately virginal, never making it past second base with any girlfriend. 

Traveling back home the next afternoon, tired, cold, and hungry, Paul’d asked what that screeching sound was, even though he knew already.

(oh, that was just her hearing aid)

( _her hearing aid?)_ He’d repeated it dumbly.

(yeah. it went off on accident. she was deaf.)

( _oh._ )

He’d waited on Gene to comment. Expected something smartassed. Feared a complaint, or something, something worse, something that would tear into his guts and rot their friendship. Less than a year, that was all he’d known Gene, and Gene was the only friend he’d ever really had. He couldn’t lose him. But Gene hadn’t said anything else.

( _was it okay?_ )

(yeah. it was fine. we had a great time.)

( _i—not that. was it… you didn’t mind, did you?_ )

(what was there to mind?)

( _that she was deaf._ ) And then, spilling out like a tipped pitcher of water— ( _you didn’t think… you didn’t think it was bad, did you, you don’t think—you don’t think people like that are—retarded, or crippled—_ )

(why would I think any of that?)

( _i don’t know._ )

(she was just deaf, stan. that’s all.)

(what’s the matter?)

He’d told him then. All of a sudden, a flurry of words that just seemed to pour out of nowhere at all. Eighteen, skipping school, carrying nothing but a guitar case—feeling more nakedly vulnerable than he ever had before—he’d told him he was deaf in one ear. He’d told him he didn’t even have that ear. Gene’s eyes had gone to the side of his face, unconsciously, and Paul had cupped his hand against his temple as if Gene could possibly see through the thick mass of dark brown curls.

He’d waited on Gene to say something well-meaning and trite, or something cruel. He could think of a million possibilities— _the hell are you doing, trying to play music, trying to sing, when you can’t half-hear_ —but he hadn’t. His arm had wrapped around Paul’s back, his hand on his waist, and he’d said five words.

(that’s okay, stan)

(you’re okay)

That was the start. That was the start. Seven years and it hadn’t gone away.

It had taken so little to want Gene, that was the hell of it. Gene who’d had nothing to recommend himself back then but half a bachelor’s degree and a lot of nerve, Gene who back then didn’t even have the decency to be attractive, conventionally or otherwise. Gene who didn’t even have any idea. But the feeling had prickled through him all the same, scratching into his soul like the most saccharine of lyrics. It was so damn pathetic that he’d never stopped being disgusted at himself. Barely any better than Carol. One low moment, one revelation. That wasn’t why you were supposed to love someone, that wasn’t—

He took a sharp breath. Fumbled for the Dairy Queen napkins, dabbed at his eyes and smeared away the snot on his face. In the dark like this, he was lucky he hadn’t unconsciously reverted to one of his old cab routes. He was lucky he’d found himself in one of the parking lots near CBGB.

Too dressed up for their clientele, sure. Sure. No big rockstar holding his hand and shutting up every catcall before it was even said. That was all right. He shut off the engine and got out of the car, dropping his keys and wallet in the pocket of his fake leather jacket. It was a weird ensemble, the punkish jacket with the nice dress—how much had he made Gene spend on all that—how much—he couldn’t think about that now—but that didn’t matter, either. He had what he needed. It was late enough that there wasn’t even a line at the door. No reason to hesitate before striding through, back to the pounding bass and flashing lights of another place he didn’t belong. No reason to hesitate besides his own cowardice, and the emptiness of being without a hand to hold. No reason at all.

\--

Gene had thought, fleetingly, that Paul might turn around and come back. Five minutes passed, then ten, before he realized he was wrong.

Wrong all the way around. Wrong in how he’d treated him, from the time he’d walked onto his front porch up until right now. He’d directed everything for Paul. Set up appointments. Planned out their trajectory every single day. Thinking that was best. Thinking Paul was too shaken up to do anything about his situation by himself. And Paul had just… Paul had just swallowed down any real protests and let him do it. Just let Gene railroad him over and over.

He’d hurt him and he hadn’t meant to. He’d eroded Paul’s self-respect. Made Paul rely on him. Monetarily, emotionally, sexually. Like Paul was some hopeless princess in a tower, unable to take anything into his own hands, instead of his friend, instead of his best friend. How awful did that have to feel?

He wasn’t going to go after him. He’d let Paul have control, finally, the way he should have all along. Let him dictate how to unravel the curse, and who with, because Gene couldn’t do it for him. The one thing Paul had really asked of him and he hadn’t managed it.

_She’s too sweet for all this bullshit._ That was what that chick at CBGB had said. Paul wasn’t sweet at all. He was a neurotic mess no matter what body he occupied. He was a vain, pigheaded bag of nerves, nothing like the swaggering Starchild or the cute little flirt he was probably putting on for some guy in a bar right now. He was…

He was…

Gene lay on Paul’s bed for awhile. Paul’s side of it, even. Greeted with the same smells as during the dance, Aquanet and Aramis and maybe something else, some heady kind of pheromone. Paul probably wasn’t going to smell like that once he came back. That was okay. He’d feel better, back to himself. They’d both feel better. Back to business as usual with no regrets. Paul’d done the right thing. If he lay there long enough, he could convince himself of that much.

The phone rang, driving away Gene’s thoughts. He answered it—stupidly hoping to hear Paul’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hey.”

“Gene?” It was Peter, harried as ever. “You’re both home?”

“No. Paul went out.”

“Paul went out? Where the hell did he go?” Peter’s sloshed voice was hard to hear over the din of voices and music. He must have still been at Studio 54. “Listen, Ace said he saw him in the basement, said he wasn’t back to normal.”

“That’s right.”

“Said he ran off from him! What happened? What’d that girl tell him?”

“She told him how to reverse the curse.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what Ace said. But he didn’t say how. Is Paulie back yet?”

“I said he went out—”

“Is he _back_ yet?”

Gene hesitated.

“No.”

“You let him go out alone as a chick?” The horror in Peter’s voice could have smashed a windshield. “Jesus Christ, Gene! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“He wanted to fix it—”

“I don’t care _what_ he wanted to fix! It’s New York at two in the fucking morning! That poor kid’s a sitting duck!”

“Pete—”

“You fucking know better than this! Chicks are vulnerable, you asshole! And Paul—”

“Pete, don’t scream at me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do! Paul’s stupid anyway! You remember that fucking photoshoot for _Hotter than Hell_! He was passed out on the fucking bed! Drank too much ’cause everyone else was! And that guy, he almost—”

“I know.”

“Then fucking get him!” Peter was spewing the words. “I can’t—me and Ace, we can’t—you gotta take care of him! You’re supposed to!”

“I don’t know where he went.”

“Then find out!” Peter cursed loudly. “Can’t be that hard! Fuck, I thought he meant something to you! I thought you—”

“I’ll get him! I’ll get him.” Gene’s heartrate was going too fast. “Do… do you want me calling you up at the club? Are you going to be there?”

“I dunno.” Peter said something Gene couldn’t discern, probably to whoever was nearby. “Call me at home. Leave Lydia a message if you gotta.”

“Okay.”

Peter hung up on him without a goodbye. Gene guessed he didn’t deserve one. His throat hurt, all of a sudden. Stupid. Stupid. This wasn’t—he called up the chauffeur again, sweat smearing his fingers. He didn’t know where Paul was. There were hundreds, thousands of bars he could’ve stopped at. Paul knew his way around New York way better than he did, from those years as a cabbie. The more he thought about it, the worse he felt.

“Where to, Gene?”

“CBGB,” he said, finally. “Just take me to CBGB.”


	17. then i said "hi" like a spider to a fly

It was faster than Paul had expected, getting noticed. A few stares as he came in to CBGB, enough to spook him. He’d never been able to shake that feeling, that insidious feeling that people only ever stared at him because something was wrong with him, because up until he was twelve or so and started growing his hair out, that had been exactly the truth. Nothing had really changed. Plenty was still wrong with him. He’d just figured out how to cover it up, was all.

He wondered if they were feeling sorry for him, walking in alone this late at night, not too long before the club closed. Figuring he was some girl who just got dumped. Or maybe they just thought he had a nice set of tits.

Whatever. He ordered a drink from Carol’s brother, just a rum and coke, and sat down at the very far corner of the bar. The crowds had thinned out extensively, the band starting to pack things up. Paul thought, briefly, that he might have screwed it all up with his timing. That he’d be driving home alone in another, what, hour, half-hour, whenever Hilly finally turned out the lights. Driving back home to Gene, if Gene had even stuck around. A hateful prospect, proving to Gene he couldn’t even get fucked on his own. But then one of the guys that’d been looking his way when he first walked in stepped up to the bar and took a seat next to him, his smile easy and warm.

“Hey there.”

“Hey.”

“You come here often?” Before Paul could do more than wince in response at the tired old line, the guy grinned and continued. “Nah, you don’t come here often. I’d have remembered.”

“Just a couple times.”

He was eying Paul’s left hand. Paul held it up wryly, exposing the lack of a wedding ring. Lack of any rings. The ones he’d been wearing last Tuesday evening had slid off by the time he’d woken up the next morning.

“You’re fine. Keep going.”

“Keep going, huh?” The guy’s lips tilted up. “That’s not exactly getting my hopes up, honey.”

Paul took a few sips of his drink, the rum and coke burning somewhere in his throat. It wasn’t working right yet. He didn’t know how to work this. No, rather, he didn’t want to work this. Batting his eyes at Carol’s brother yesterday hadn’t felt degrading, but somehow this did.

“Sorry. Maybe you’ll get somewhere.”

The guy just looked amused.

“Kind of cold, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

“Paulie.”

“Polly, that’s sweet. I’m David. What do you do, Polly?”

“I’m in a band.” Another swallow, this one feeling like lead. David wasn’t bad-looking. Dark, straight hair, about as tall as he’d been. Skinny. Paul didn’t go after men much. There wasn’t a reason to, on-tour, when the women piled into the hotel rooms without any effort on his part. He’d fucked around with Peter some, and let Ace suck him off once or twice—but guys, in general, had been one-night stands in sorry discos. They never meant anything to him but regret in the aftermath.

“No kidding? What kind of band?”

“Just a rock band.”

“A rock band, huh? That’s new. Thought girl groups went out with the Supremes.”

Paul flinched.

“We’re not a girl group.” And then, because the guy looked almost apologetic, he added, “We don’t harmonize well enough for that.”

David laughed, mood restored.

“What do you play? Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” He was scrutinizing Paul in the dim lights of the bar. Eventually, he grasped Paul’s hand, the one not holding his glass, running his fingers up and down Paul’s knuckles, sliding all the way up the back of his hand before stopping at the wrist. “Pretty long fingers. Keyboard?”

“No.”

Past his wrist now, feeling up his arm. His hand was broad, fingers thick. Not like Gene’s, no calluses. Paul shivered involuntarily. One more thing Gene had helped shield him from, feeling weak. Feeling like there was ever a situation he couldn’t walk out of. That was gone now. He’d just have to live with it.

“You’re not a drummer.” The guy laughed, tapping his fingers along Paul’s forearm. “Bass, maybe?”

“No.”

“That narrows it down,” and he smiled. His fingers were trailing again, pressing along his bare skin until they reached his shoulder, then his collarbone, inching across and up—“I guess your instrument’s right—here.”

David’s fingers barely brushed against Paul’s lips for a second. Then his mouth replaced them, hot and wet, only faintly tasting of alcohol. Paul kissed back almost mechanically. His spine felt like a steel rod, all stiffness, no give anywhere. He raised his arm, just out of muscle memory, apt to reach for the guy’s shoulder, only to stop and pull back. He broke the kiss a second later. The guy just seemed amused.

“Was I wrong?”

Paul shook his head and took another few sips of his drink. The rum and coke was more ice than anything else, already nearly gone. He pushed it aside.

“I play guitar, too. Just rhythm.”

“Just rhythm.” Still smiling. “Can I buy you another drink, Polly? What would you like?”

“I don’t—” Highballs were the only type of drinks he liked, and he barely drank them. He thought about Gene, making him stick around the club an extra hour last night, just to sober him up from half a Tom Collins. Overzealous. He swallowed thickly. “Why don’t you pick something out for me?”

David nodded and got up, heading to the bar. Paul didn’t watch him order, just looked around, heart thudding a slow, defeated cadence. His palms were wet, and he wiped them off on the skirt of his dress. Locked in now. Locked in already. He felt like it, even if it wasn’t true. That was how it went, right? Buy a girl a drink and go to bed with her. Trade a cocktail for a lay. He’d never really been on the giving or receiving end of that before. He couldn’t force a smile when the guy came back with a Brandy Alexander.

“Figured you might like chocolate.”

“Thanks.”

He stirred it, maybe unnecessarily. The first sip was predictably sweet, and he avoided the guy’s gaze at first, waiting on him to speak again.

“You’re pretty quiet, aren’t you?”

“That’s what people tell me.”

“I thought a singer would talk a little more.” David leaned in. “C’mon, tell me about yourself. I bet you’ve got some stories.”

Paul forced a weak smile.

“I don’t, really. I go right back to the hotel after shows. Off-tour I just want to be alone.”

“But you came here. Looks like you’ve got an itch to scratch.”

He had to take another swallow of the cocktail before he could summon up an answer. His tongue didn’t want to stammer out anything. He wanted to walk out, not entertain any of this shit, not like this. Talking up a guy in the bar he didn’t give a damn about. And yet for all the hollowness, for all the sick feelings creeping through him, he kept plowing through regardless, relentless in his own sabotage. Like he was scooping out his own insides while complaining about the mess.

“Yeah? You think you’re the guy for it?”

“I think you’re the girl for it. But maybe I want to make sure.” David smiled. His hand went for the side of Paul’s face. Paul stiffened up instantly, and the guy shifted his hand when he did, until it rested on the back of his neck. Paul leaned forward then, trying to relax, letting their lips meet again, letting him deepen the kiss. His tongue was deft enough, at least. He wasn’t pushy or handsy. It seemed more like the guy was waiting. For what, Paul didn’t know.

He pulled back again for a breath and another few sips of his drink. The smooth chocolate flavor on his tongue tasted better than the kisses, but that was to be expected. He didn’t want to get really drunk, just tipsy enough to shut his brain down, enough to stop feeling sick with every response he made, every returned touch. If he couldn’t approach the whole thing clinically, he’d approach it a little stoned.

“Are you sure now?”

“Might need a test drive.” He paused. “You’ve got a boyfriend, don’t you?”

“Never.”

“You’ve got a girlfriend?”

“Not lately.” Paul watched the guy’s expression with dull fascination. Watching him assume he knew the whole story just from two words. Some depressed femme trying out the straight scene. Like something out of a porno.

“Not lately, huh. What happened?”

God, the guy kept trying to get him to talk, like getting him to talk was the key. Paul’s nerves were only getting worse with every question. He wasn’t much at inventing even when he was in a better state than this. He’d never really had to. Between Bill Aucoin and Gene, that base was covered. The Brandy Alexander was getting downed just as readily as a milkshake. And all the while the guy kept his gaze right on him.

“She dumped me for another guy, that’s what happened,” Paul rattled out finally. “It was months ago. What do you want, a picture?”

“Only if she’s as pretty as you. Are you ever gonna loosen up on your own, or d’you need some more help?” The guy dug in his coat pocket, producing a bottle of pills. He unscrewed the cap, tipping a few into his hand before holding his palm out towards Paul. “It’s just ’ludes.”

He didn’t know why he reached a hand towards David’s. He didn’t know why he picked up two of the pills, staring at them in the dim light like he’d never been around that shit, looking at the manufacturer’s name and the 714 marking just below it, like he really needed confirmation. He had a bottle of them in his medicine cabinet, basically untouched since he’d gotten the prescription from Hilsen a couple years back. Half out of necessity, because the nerve pills he’d been taking at the time were wrecking his libido. Half out of curiosity, because everyone was taking Quaaludes, because they were passed out like party favors after shows and in nightclubs.

But he didn’t like how he felt on ’ludes. It wasn’t like the amphetamines he dabbled with on tour, where they’d make him feel great enough to bust through the setlist and sleep with at least two or three girls after without a rest in between. It wasn’t like marijuana, where he’d just feel too free and start rambling about whatever shit was on his mind to whoever listened. Quaaludes… Quaaludes worked too well, that was the problem. Shut his anxiety down like a steel trap snapping its jaws around a bear’s leg. He hadn’t been able to get high on them like most people. He just didn’t give a damn about anything on ’ludes, and instead of that being a relief, instead of it being a solution to all the problems he’d had since he was fifteen, it had terrified him to the point he’d left them alone.

He didn’t like how he felt on ’ludes, but he didn’t like how he felt now any better. Dragging himself through, making all the motions towards losing it to this guy without really wanting to at all. Drinking wasn’t changing his mood fast enough, but the pills would. Yeah. Yeah. He knew some people didn’t even remember what they’d done while they ’luded out. Some people, enough people, turned into sex fiends while they were on that shit. If he woke up tomorrow back to himself, blanking out the whole deal, every bit of it, then… then fine. Maybe it was even what Carol had expected out of him.

The pills were swallowed down, chased with the last gulp of that Brandy Alexander. Locking himself in, that was what he was doing. Forcing his own choice. The guy looked a little surprised, and then he took a ’lude himself, without a swig of anything to help it go down.

“You’re an odd one, aren’t you? That’s cool. I don’t—”

Paul reached over, cupping a hand around David’s chin, lifting it up as he leaned in, crushing their lips together hard, almost shoving his tongue into David’s mouth.

\--

David had him up against the wall twenty minutes later. He had tried, haltingly, to get Paul to wrap both legs around him so he could fuck him right there, or attempt to, right up against a bunch of grimy open brickwork and tattered posters. Paul shook his head.

“I don’t want to do it here.”

“Are you that shy?”

He wouldn’t have even wanted to do it at Studio 54, where he could’ve gotten away with it behind closed doors. CBGB only really had some corner areas like the one they were in right now, the bathrooms, and the stage.

“We… we can go to your place.”

“I don’t think you’ll like my place.” David’s fingers were sliding down under Paul’s dress and nightie, squeezing one breast and then the other. It didn’t feel a quarter as good as it was supposed to. Wasn’t comparable to even Gene’s lone, awkward grope on the bed. The hard-on pressed against his leg, barely contained within his jeans, didn’t feel like a promise, just a dull expectation.

“I like any place.”

“But you won’t like my wife.” David’s hand shifted up, roaming his collarbone, stroking the back of his neck, mouth pressing against every spot as his fingers left it. Paul turned his head as David’s lips pushed against the right side of his neck.

“Don’t.”

“We’re past high school, Polly, I won’t give you a hickey.”

“ _Don’t._ ”

“Okay. Okay.” David drew back a few centimeters. Kissed his mouth again. “Any more requests?”

“A hotel.” Paul’s stomach was still churning. He was waiting for that cloud of anxiety to lift. Waiting until he didn’t care about anything anymore, waiting for the booze and ’ludes to really hit him. He didn’t think they had yet. He felt too much like himself for that. His balance felt a bit off, making him press himself against the wall more than he needed to, but the ’ludes hadn’t done much to shut down his brain. “Just take me to a hotel.”

“That’s a lot of trouble.”

“I’ll… I’ll pay.”

He didn’t have the money for it. A handful of quarters and a few scattered ones in his wallet. Credit cards he wouldn’t be able to max out until he hit twenty, maybe thirty grand, yet he didn’t think he could risk trying to use them, not right now. But he was hoping that David would take the bait. One hand, twitchy and oddly wobbly, rubbed and groped David’s erection through his pants, then fumbled to unzip his jeans, fingers sliding under his briefs and wandering the length of his dick. David grunted a bit, shoving up against the touch.

He thought that would help his case, somehow. Prove he was interested. Keep forcing his own hand no matter how repelled he was, until he got what he wanted out of it, those fifteen minutes he needed to get his life back. David seemed vaguely amused, and then annoyed with his feeble strokes.

“You really don’t have the time for a hotel, baby.” His hand closed over Paul’s wrist. “It was cute at first, but you’re going to have to stop putting me off soon.”

“I’m not putting you off. I just don’t want to do it here.” His hands still felt funny, tingly, like they’d fallen asleep. He tugged his hand back, somehow a monumental struggle, stepping forward. Too heavily, having to grab onto David’s shoulder to stay steady. “There’s too many people, I…”

“You try and give me a handjob and then you say there’s too many people? Christ.” The come-ons were long gone now, the ease in his demeanor, now that he was on the cusp of getting what he wanted. Paul knew that.

“I’m—” Paul stopped, gnawing on his lip. He should’ve been breathing harder than this, but even the panic was somehow shaving itself down. “I’m not… I don’t want anyone to see what’s gonna hap…”

“You’ve never even had ’ludes before.” David shook his head. “What the hell are you trying to do?”

“I just… come on, David, let me—I’ll blow you, too, if we… if we go.”

“Why would I want a lesbian trying to blow me?”

His head was starting to feel weird. Not quite that apathy that Quaaludes had given him before. It was stronger than that. He was starting to feel sick.

“’M not really,” Paul protested blearily. David rolled his eyes.

“I think that’s the one thing you didn’t lie about. Like hell you’re in a band. You’ll be passed out before we even get to a hotel. So either we do it here or—”

“No.”

“No?”

“I won’t do it here.”

David’s face contorted. Blurred. Paul shifted back until his heels were up against the wall, then moved to the side, feeling the posters crinkle against his back. Prickles of fear slithered up his spine, far slower than they should have. Nobody was around. Nobody. David jerked him by the arm, an arm he’d stroked gently not half an hour ago, forcing him to stumble forward on legs that were barely holding him up, until he was pushed up against him again, close enough Paul could smell the sweat and cologne on him, feel his hard-on, and he realized, suddenly, he’d been wrong, horribly wrong; it wasn’t always a transaction; it wasn’t always—

“Then you’re a real waste of an evening,” David snapped, dropping his hold just as suddenly as he’d made it, shoving Paul back against the wall. He almost fell, barely managing to right himself, his arms shaking as he shifted sideways across the wall, eyes on David, who was blurring up now, and he realized, he could, he _could_ —

“Please, you’re not worth it,” David said, and before he could say more, Paul pushed himself away from the wall and fled.

\--

It felt like an eternity before he made it to a door. Not the exit, just the bathroom. Just turning the knob seemed to take hours, the smell of sewage and vomit assaulting him before he’d even gotten inside. Every square inch of space of the bathroom was covered in graffiti and stickers and fliers, and the stalls didn’t even have doors. Girls were standing in front of the open stalls in a drunken bid to protect their friends’ privacy.

His head swam as he stumbled to the sink. Stupid. _Stupid._ The few girls inside were talking. Maybe they were talking about him, maybe they recognized him from the night before. It didn’t matter. The only important thing left was getting that shit out of his system. Shit he couldn’t even blame on someone else. He’d taken it willingly. He’d been enough of a fucking idiot to make himself a bigger target than he already was.

Gene would be disgusted with him. Gene couldn’t be half as disgusted with him as he was with himself.

Paul clasped the edge of the dingy, yellowed sink with one hand, just to keep his balance. The streaked, cracked mirror in front of him showed him everything he didn’t want to see. Ratty hair, smudged makeup, all that was nothing, all that meant nothing compared to the desperate look in his watering eyes. Scared. Fragile. He didn’t want to be any of those things. He didn’t want to depend on anyone, anyone’s kindness, anyone’s pity. He didn’t want to be vulnerable.

If he kept his bearings, he’d be okay. He closed his eyes, shoving a finger as far down his throat as he could. He started retching almost immediately, coughing, feeling that horrible burn of acid and alcohol and the milkshake and pizza and doughnuts Gene had treated him to come back up again. His eyes stung, one hand and then the other sliding against the sink as he vomited once, twice, then reached for the tap, turning it on. It wasn’t much good—the vomit still swirled and stopped up the drain—but he didn’t care. Paul panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His legs felt like water underneath him. A couple more minutes. A couple more minutes and David would be gone and he’d be steady enough to get out of there. He’d—he’d get his car and drive back home. Gene might still be there, even. Ready to—ready to chide him for running out like that. He’d deserve it. He’d take it. Just to see him. Even if Gene didn’t want him. Even…

The wobbly feeling in his legs wasn’t getting any better. He shifted one hand off the sink, then had to grab the sink again, just to stay upright. The lights were too bright, all of a sudden, the voices and the pounding of someone's bass outside the bathroom overpoweringly loud.

A little longer, then. He’d give it a little longer. His forehead was wet. Turning the tap off seemed like too much effort, but he did it, just before his fingers slid from the sink, and he crumpled to his knees on the dirty floor.

He didn’t know how long he was there. He almost thought he might have fallen asleep, only he was still sitting up when he felt a hand grasp his arm. He thought, stupidly, it might have been Gene’s, but no. It was too soft, too small. He opened his eyes anyway. It was a girl, crouched at his side, a girl with cropped red hair, hazily familiar.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.” His voice was hoarse from vomiting.

“I saw you running. What happened? Is somebody after you?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t…”

“Is it Gene Simmons? Did that asshole do something to you?” Her hand moved from his arm to his forehead. Her fingers were cool. Paul shook his head.

“No. No, Gene’s not here. He’d never. It…” It was hard to talk, somehow exhausting just to string sentences together. “I took some Quaaludes. But I think I… I think I threw them all up…”

“Can you stand up?”

She had seemed normal before he’d started to move. But as soon as he tried to get off his knees, she and everything else in the bathroom started blurring out in front of him, like the letters during an eye exam. Fuck. He wobbled, grabbing onto her hand as she led him out of the bathroom, walking into the main area. He felt himself half-falter, half sink into a chair.

“I can get you a taxi.”

“No, I… my car’s parked out there, it’s okay. I’ll—”

“Don’t worry about your car right now. Do you have anyone you want me to call for you? I’ll be right here, sweetie, I won’t let anybody bother you.”

She could call his house. Maybe Gene was there. Or maybe Gene had cut all his losses and given up on him. Finally gone back home.

“No.”

It was hard to think right now about anything, even anything painful. Everything had fuzzed out. Even though he’d stopped moving, the girl still looked all funny and streaked-over, and his eyes were heavy. He must not have vomited all the ’lude up.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I just… I… I’m tired, sorry…”

“Can you stay with me? Come on. Talk to me. What’s your name? Where are you from?”

“Paul.” The second answer came slower. “Queens.”

“Pol, okay.” Her voice was soft. He was straining to hear her. Straining to hear anything. His guts were still roiling, fingers shaking. “You remember me? I met you yesterday. I’m Mary-Anne.”

He nodded.

“This scene doesn’t fit you. I could tell that right off the bat. How did you meet a guy like Gene?”

She was trying to get him to talk, too. He didn't know how to answer, what to make up. He was too tired to try to lie.

“We… we met at a friend’s house. Years and… years ago. Before we, before everything.” He could feel himself fading out again. He could feel himself not minding it, even. The concern and watchfulness on her face was just another image that was slipping in and out of his vision. “Me and Gene have been together for… almost ten years.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Even given how fuzzy his vision was getting, he noticed she looked a little sad.

“Doesn’t he take you places?”

“Yeah. We go everywhere together. ’S not… not how you think it is, I promise.”

She shook her head.

“He shouldn’t have let you come by yourself. You don’t know how to get around.”

“He didn’t. I… I got mad at him, that’s all.”

“I bet there’s a lot to get mad at.”

Paul’s head felt like a piece of concrete, but he managed to shake it. Try to correct her. Poor Mary-Anne, who still thought he was some pitiful wannabe, or worse. Some little hometown girlfriend Gene had kept on the side while he filled photo albums with his groupies. Off and on, he wasn’t so dazed that he didn’t know that. He just didn’t care.

“No, no. He’s been real good to me this whole time.”

“Uh-huh. You sure I can’t call somebody for you?”

“’M sure. ’M just tired. I… I’ll nap a bit before I…”

His eyelids were like lead doors. He slumped forward in the chair, head sinking against his arms as he fell asleep against the table.


	18. remembering what my little girl said

Gene went through Paul’s closet and drawers, getting him out a shirt, jeans, boxers, and shoes as he waited on the limo, just in case Paul had been able to go through with it and end the curse. The more he thought about it, the more Gene hoped he hadn’t. Paul had barely specified anything—he doubted that Carol had, either—beyond it being over once he had sex. Would he have had any time to leave before he started changing back? Or would whoever he’d slept with end up watching the whole bizarre process? It was a gruesome train of thought, but better, maybe, than picturing what else could have happened to Paul. At least back in his own body, he could fend a guy off.

Gene thought about the altercation on the front porch with Peter and Ace. He hadn’t really given it the consideration he should have. But both the guys had been holding back when Paul had first charged at them. Peter had screamed a lot, but he’d just held Paul off of Ace, for the most part. If Peter had wanted to, he could’ve really hurt him. But he hadn’t, and probably not just because Peter had thought he was Paul’s girlfriend, but because he was a girl. Paul wouldn’t have been afforded that kind of protection on his own at some bar.

Gene realized, sickly, that he hadn’t thought things out much better than Paul had. Letting him leave had been the stupidest of his missteps, sure, but he’d mostly thought about Paul being a girl in terms of how it related to him. Not so much in terms of how it related to the way everyone else would treat him. He swallowed, bagging up the clothes as the limo pulled up.

Gene spent the limo ride staring anxiously at his own watch, stomach churning, a dozen scenarios playing out at once in his head. CBGB had just been a guess, and a dim one at that. Paul had genuinely liked that little dump, a hell of a lot more than he’d liked Studio 54. Been fond of the acts there. But Paul knew his way around plenty of dumps. Gene wouldn’t have put it past him to have driven to the nearest juke joint, just for convenience and anonymity. And if he had, then Gene didn’t know if he would find him, or if Paul would be driving himself back home the next day, terrified, broken-down, or worse. Not even coming home at all. And he’d be responsible. He’d be responsible.

He hadn’t taken care of Paul at all. _Peter_ had known better. Peter would’ve made Paul stay inside even if it had meant barricading the doors to Paul’s own house. Gene rubbed his forehead as though that could ease the aching there. There’d been that killer last year around the Queens area; Gene didn’t know if they’d caught him. That guy that ran around murdering dark-haired girls out West. All sorts of shit. Just all sorts. If Paul had… if he’d…

He ran out of the parking lot almost before the limo had even stopped, not waiting on the chauffeur to even hand him an umbrella for the rain. He’d… if he couldn’t find Paul now, here, he’d phone Bill Aucoin. Tell him everything. Have a manhunt. Bill could figure everything out, spin it any damn way he wanted. Make up another set of lies. Search the whole New York area for Paul in whatever shape he was in. If it destroyed KISS, let it. He didn’t care. He didn’t care as long as Paul was safe.

In his hurry to CBGB, he didn’t even notice Paul’s car parked less than a dozen feet away from the limo.

There might’ve been fifty people left in the club when he walked in, a lone bouncer smoking marijuana just inside. He glanced at Gene, seeming to recognize him from the night prior, then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

“The Ramones already left, man.”

“I’m not here for the band,” Gene said. “Look, the gu—the girl I was with last night, you remember? Is she here?”

“The tall girl with the tits?” the bouncer said offhand, taking a drag. Gene stiffened, but the bouncer didn’t seem too concerned. “Yeah, she came in awhile ago.”

“Is she still here?”

“Didn’t see her leave. But we’re about to close.”

That didn’t mean Paul hadn’t left. He could’ve taken that back exit he’d brought Gene through the other night. Gene didn’t bother thanking him, striding into the main area of the club. The band was long gone; the only sounds left were the jukebox and occasional guitar riffs from the few drunks left around the bar. No one seemed to be paying enough attention to recognize him; or maybe he was just putting people off from it, stalking through, looking for him. Every time he got near one of the few couples left in the place, he felt sick, searching the girl’s face, never finding Paul there.

He made it to the bar after a few minutes, and caught a glimpse of red hair and a cheap jumpsuit. She was leaning over someone in a black jacket, someone slumped over a corner table.

“Mary-Anne,” he called out, hurrying toward her. She turned. Relief seemed to smash into his guts as he got closer and realized who the girl at the table had to be, even though her face was pressed up against her arms. He’d only seen those same wild, dark curls for the last eight years.

Gene crossed over to the table, reaching for Paul’s shoulder. Mary-Anne smacked at his hand.

“It’s about time you showed up.”

“Paul—”

“You didn’t even do what I said. You just let her go off alone. What kind of asshole are you?”

He didn’t answer her. There really wasn’t an answer to give. She was as right as Peter had been. Told Gene to be good to Paul and he’d done Paul even worse than a groupie.

“Paul.” He leaned over him, Mary-Anne only grudgingly moving to the side to accommodate him. Paul made a couple murmuring sounds, but didn’t raise his head. Gene started rubbing his shoulder through the jacket, half to reassure himself that Paul was there, and solid, and safe, at least now. He turned to Mary-Anne. “What happened?”

“Quaaludes. She keeps going in and out.”

Oh, God. Paul didn’t use Quaaludes on his own. He’d sampled a lot of other shit, sure, but Gene had never seen him take Ace or Peter or the roadies up on that particular pill. Gene swallowed.

“Is h—is she okay?”

Mary-Anne gave him an irritated look.

“You asking if anything happened? I don’t think so. She’d puked it up in the bathroom when I found her.”

“You’ve stayed with her?”

“Somebody had to.” She let out a snort. “You rockstars are all the same. I don’t know where you get off. That poor thing, she’s got no business out here by herself.”

“You don’t even know who she is.”

“Yeah, I do. She’s yours.”

“What?”

“You heard me. She’s been talking about you this whole time.” She reached over, and if she noticed Gene’s stare, she never reacted to it, tapping Paul’s arm. He stirred a little. “Did you ever find her?”

“Find who?”

“Carol Jensen.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

Mary-Anne shook her head.

“She reminds me of Carol. Just pitiful.” Mary-Anne didn’t elaborate, massaging Paul’s arm until slowly, he raised his head. “Hey, honey, he’s taking you back.”

“Gene?” Paul’s speech was sluggish. He looked like he was on the verge of nodding off, head bobbing a little with each word, but his eyes finally started to focus on Gene’s face. “Gene, I’m… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize. We’re going home.”

“My car… can’t…”

“Your car’s out here, right? Give me your keys.”

Paul’s arm shifted. Again, he was feeling around for a pocket the dress he didn’t have. Gene reached over, digging in the pocket of Paul’s jacket, coming up with his keys and wallet. He stuck the wallet back.

“But you dunno how to drive…”

“I’ll send someone to take it back for you. My chauffeur’s here for us.” Gene took Paul’s arm. It was limp and warm. He squeezed it, briefly, before letting go. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Paul nodded dully. Mary-Anne shot Gene a disgusted look before Gene headed over to the nearest bouncer, who was more than happy to lead him personally to Hilly Kristal. Hilly looked tired but mildly flattered at the sight of him two nights in a row.

“Is it the scenery you dig, or the music?”

“Neither,” Gene said. “I need to use your phone.”

Hilly waved a hand absentmindedly, ushering him into an office just as ratty as the rest of the club. The phone was the color of day-old French fries, and looked almost as greasy. He dug through his own wallet, finally coming up with one of the KISS corporation’s business cards, and dialed it, the receiver feeling like a deadweight in his hand.

“Hey, this is Gene Simmons. I’m with Paul Stanley right now. Yeah. He’s gotten kind of loaded. His car’s out at CBGB. If you could have someone pick it up—no, no, just the car. Just take his car back, it’s fine. I’ll take care of him. No, that’s fine. I got it. The key’s with the club owner. Thanks.” He hung up the receiver. Hilly turned to him, puzzled.

“Haven’t seen Paul Stanley this whole night.”

“Yeah, you have.”

Hilly’s lip twitched upwards.

“That how it is? All right, all right.”

Gene tugged Paul’s car key from the keyring and handed it to Hilly, who took it with a yawn.

“Did you bring that girl again, or are you looking for someone else?”

“Same girl.”

“Gotcha.” Another bouncer was heading towards him, and he raised his hand. “I’ve got to go. Sorry I didn’t catch you when you came in. We were about to close up, to be honest. But if there’s anything you boys want, it’s yours. We’ll keep the place open as long as you’re around.”

“I’m just leaving, but thanks.” Gene headed back to the corner table. Paul was sitting up a little bit, drooping head propped up by his arm. Mary-Anne was talking to him, but whatever their conversation, she stopped once Gene approached.

“We’re going home now, Paul.”

“’S… s’okay. I just really need to sleep…”

“I know. You can sleep in the limo.” He reached over, taking Paul’s arm, the one he wasn’t steadying his head against. Paul seemed like he was moving in slow motion, other arm half-flopping off the table as he got to his feet, leaning up against Gene heavily. Mary-Anne didn’t help steady him, still sitting at the table with that same look of disgust.

“Thanks for staying, Mary-Anne. I appreciate it.” Gene swallowed thickly. “Do you have an address?”

“Sure. Why?”

“So I can thank you properly.” He dug out his wallet. Of course, he didn’t have a pen, but he did have the business cards he’d thumbed through earlier. He pressed one into her hand. “This number right here is KISS’ management. Call, tell the woman on the line who you are, give her your address, and—” he hesitated. “I’d say you’d get free front-row tickets to whatever show you wanted, but—”

“I don’t go for that anymore.”

“Call and give her your address anyway. I’ll have a check sent.”

“Forget it.” Mary-Anne let out a breath, pushing back her chair and getting up, turning away. She was headed back to the bar. “Just take the poor kid home.”

Gene did, walking Paul out the back exit the way he’d been shown the night before. It was still raining hard. He hadn’t brought a jacket of his own. He tried to yank up Paul’s so at least Paul’s head and hair wouldn’t get too wet, but Paul was stumbling so much that he gave up after only a few attempts. They were both soaked by the time they got to the parking lot. His driver came out as soon as he spotted them, holding out an umbrella, really too late to be of any use. Gene took it anyway, listening to the droplets pound against the plastic for those few steps, before he had to close it to guide Paul into the car.

He had an arm wrapped around Paul the whole way back, as if anyone else could even get hold of him now. Paul would stir off and on in the limo. He’d say things, ramble strangely, but for the most part he’d fall back asleep against Gene’s shoulder within a few minutes. Gene had seen chicks on Quaaludes before; hell, he’d seen Peter and Ace mix them with alcohol plenty for a stronger buzz. They’d end up both horny and flat on their asses. Gene didn’t invite girls to his room that didn’t at least seem sober, not wanting to court the possibility of them passing out or vomiting everywhere, so he didn’t know if Paul’s napping was normal or an indication of an overdose.

“You want a doctor?” he asked once, while he was awake. Paul shook his head.

“Paul, did anything happen? The girl said she didn’t think so, but—”

“Uh-uh. Gene, just… I’m tired, I can’t concentrate.”

Gene let him alone after that. The soft breaths against his shoulder smelled like vomit and alcohol. Paul drooled on him a few times, too, but he didn’t mind. By the time they pulled up to Paul’s place, Gene was able to maneuver him into getting out of the car, half-carrying, half-walking him up the front porch steps and into the house. The Quaaludes had left Paul in a weird state, out of it but frighteningly, basically pliable. It scared him to watch how slowly but how easily he was moved around. It scared him to think of what would have happened to him if Mary-Anne hadn’t found him. He must have had his drink spiked by whatever guy he’d been trying to hit on. Paul must’ve figured it out and tried to puke it up, or else, just thrown up as a side-effect.

Gene took his shoes off for him before helping him into bed, still in the dress. He didn’t really want to take him out of it. There was some dried vomit in his hair. Gene got a towel from the master bathroom, soaked it in water, and used the towel to wipe it out of his hair. After a little more consideration, he soaked another washcloth in water and wiped Paul’s face off with it, getting rid of the last smudges of makeup and the crusted drool on his mouth. Then he tossed both towels in the hamper, stripped to his boxers, and crawled into bed beside him.

Awhile later, he heard the bedsprings creak. Paul had scooted over in his sleep, his face pressed against Gene’s chest. Like a little kid, just worn out, that was all.

 _She’s yours_ , that was what Carol had said. _Yours._ Gene didn’t think about it before he put an arm around him, pulling him in tighter, falling asleep to the rhythm of Paul’s breaths on his skin.


	19. she was common, flirty, she looked about thirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Paul has a nightmare and finally starts to confess to Gene. ( **Author’s note 6/24/2020:** Smut has been revised! Thighsex imminent.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised the second half of the smut thanks to some sweet encouragement. There are a lot of ways to do non-penetrative sex that don't rely on any manual labor, and my original intention was to write it the way it is in the revision. If you liked the original better or just want a comparison, just PM me, but I prefer this one!

In his dreams Paul was always himself. Sometimes he was eight years old, in the school playground, hearing his classmates singsong “Stanley the one-eared monster” to the tune of Rudolph, and sometimes the classmates would turn into a whole stadium full of people, thousands, cackling and pointing, while he stood onstage and couldn’t say a word. Sometimes he was his own age, walking off a plane, or at a photoshoot, stripped down and bare-faced and afraid as soon as the cameras started.

That night he was seventeen again. He knew because the T.V. was on in the living room, Neil Armstrong on the screen in all his astronaut garb, sticking the flag up on the Moon’s rocky soil. Julia was there, for once, sitting beside him on the couch.

“Do you think it’s real?” she said, and he looked at her, disgusted.

_(of course it’s real)_

“Do you think it’s real?” she repeated, and he thought she must not have heard him. He put his hand to his face, touching the start of his sideburns—something new he was trying, something he’d need to shave before school started back up, but for now, it was cool. He’d seen them on rockstars, but rarely in person, and never on someone he knew, until that guy he’d met a month back. Gene. But Gene was too fat in the face to pull the look off. They would look better on him, once they grew out.

_(it’s got to be real. why would they waste all that time and money on something that wasn’t real? why would they be so stupid?)_

“You tell me,” Julia said, and her face and build shifted, dark hair bleaching out to light brown, pockmarks and freckles sketching across her face, Carol’s face, Carol’s voice now, Carol’s hand reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me, Stan?”

_(i don’t—)_

Another shift. Carol’s face melted down, skull pushing outward, hair going shaggy and wild. Her nose forced out and flattened all at once, muzzle emerging. A lion’s face on a man’s body, a man’s voice coming through its throat.

“Are you going to tell me?”

_(please)_

_(please, take it off, i’m sorry—i’m so sorry—)_

“Is it real?”

_(please)_

_(what’re you saying, i don’t understand)_

“Is love real, Stan?” Marbas’ voice was oddly soft as he curled his hand around Paul’s suddenly much more narrow shoulder. Tapped it, then Marbas’ still-human fingers moved to trace the sides of his smooth, bare face. “Or—let’s put it differently. What she felt for you, was that love?”

_(i)_

_(i don’t think you can love someone you don’t know)_

“ But you’ve made your fortune pretending.” Marbas’ lips pulled back, revealing teeth as long as his thumbs. “And so has he.”

_(he?)_

“The man in your bed.” The demon pushed Paul’s hair behind his left ear. “I’ve cursed greater men than you. Byron. Shelley. More. Watching you was hardly entertaining in comparison, until he came along.”

_(don’t hurt him)_

_(please don’t—)_

“Do you really love him, Stan?” Marbas didn’t give him time to answer, tugging at a curl, longer now than it had been minutes before. Paul couldn’t feel a centimeter of what was happening to him, could barely do more than watch and breathe as his body warped before him. “Why? Because he was kind to you?”

_(i don’t know)_

“Because he had the qualities you lacked? Or because you didn’t believe he’d want you?"

_(i don’t know!)_

The demon wasn’t letting the point go. Neil Armstrong still in the background, the sound of the T.V. tinny. His shoes off to the side on the dirty carpet. The plugged-in fan on the coffee table. Everything, everything the same in that little apartment but him.

“You won’t tell me. You won’t tell him. What I wrought on you really makes no difference.” Marbas touched the center of chest, full and heavy before the demon even moved his finger towards it, and Paul realized, just from what he could see of his body, that he was still seventeen after all. The weight he’d had back then was there, the stomach flab, the too-thick thighs. Every bit of him dumpy and unattractive, no definition, nothing worth wanting. “Even if you’d always had this form, you’d have kept your silence. You’d never have given yourself up.”

_(i can’t, i just can’t—)_

“Then you want to remain as you are?” The demon’s mouth twitched again; he seemed almost to smile, fingers toying with Paul’s shirt.

_(of course not!)_

_(you don’t understand!)_

“Paul? Paul, wake up.”

He opened his eyes. Gene was there, leaning over him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a book and a newspaper on the other side of the bed. Gene had stayed with him.

“What time is it?”

“Noon. Are you okay?”

Paul nodded, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. Looking down, he realized he was still in last night’s dress. The nightie’s straps beneath it, amazingly, had stayed in place, though the sleeves of the dress had slid a bit. He swallowed, the memories of the night prior trickling in like a drizzle before a thunderstorm, replacing the fragments of his dream, and tugged the sleeves back up to his shoulder.

“Did I say anything strange?”

“You were getting kind of twitchy.”

A glance at the kicked-askew bedsheets told Paul that was an understatement.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I should have stopped you.”

“From kicking in my sleep?”

“From leaving last night.”

Paul looked over at him.

“What could you have done? Chased down my car?”

“I could’ve grabbed you when you were going out the door.” Gene grabbed the book—it was one of his old self-help numbers from high school—and set it on the nightstand, possibly the only attempt at putting something away that Paul had ever seen out of him. “Or I could’ve done what you wanted. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault at all. You got me out of there.” Paul shifted until he was on his side. “If it hadn’t been for you, I…”

“Mary-Anne was taking care of you.”

“She… she was, wasn’t she? She must’ve thought I was so stupid.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you knew where to look for me.”

“I didn’t. It was just a guess.”

“I shouldn’t have gone off. I guess I wanted to… I don’t know what I wanted.” Paul paused. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“Are you sure nothing—”

“Nothing happened.” Paul tried to smile, weakly. “I wouldn’t still be in this shape if something had.”

“If anybody touched you, then—”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Paul, you’re not fine.” Gene swallowed. “Somebody spiked your drink.”

Paul didn’t answer for a long moment.

“Nobody spiked my drink.”

“What?”

“I said nobody spiked my drink. I took the ’ludes myself.”

He didn’t want to look Gene in the face. He didn’t want to see the disappointment and disgust there, now that he knew that Paul had drugged himself when he was already in danger. That he hadn’t been innocent. That had to have done it for Gene. Wrecked any chance of leftover fondness or want.

“Why?”

“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of fucking some random guy sober.” Paul exhaled. “I didn’t realize I couldn’t stand the thought of fucking him trashed, either.”

“Paul—”

“It’s okay, all right?”

He was surprised when Gene gathered him up in his arms. His breaths hitched, all of him just tightening, tightening up at first. Gene almost let go then, but then Paul grabbed him, burying his face against Gene’s neck.

He didn’t deserve that kind of comfort out of Gene after what he’d done. Worrying Gene. Risking his own safety. He knew it, but that didn’t make him any less greedy for it. He remembered, in blurred-out fragments, Gene’s hold on him in CBGB last night, Gene’s arm around him in the limo. Gene wiping his face off with the towel. He remembered leaning into all that warmth, too ’luded out to even quite understand it, only recognize that it was there for him, despite everything.

Hopeless. So hopeless. But he kept holding on anyway, grateful, pathetically grateful, holding on longer than he should have, breathing in the scent of Gene’s skin. Closer than he’d ever let himself get before. Closer, maybe, than he’d ever get again. Gene hadn’t even gotten dressed yet, was still in his boxers, and his bare arms around him felt so good, so reassuring, it almost hurt. Paul shut his eyes and peeled himself away, not wanting to wait for Gene to let go first.

“It’s really… it’s okay.”

And then he got up. He felt more clearheaded than he’d expected. Peter had told him ’ludes kept him from waking up with a hangover after a night of partying, but he’d never really believed him until now. Except for the acrid taste of vomit and morning breath still in his mouth, he felt… bizarrely enough, he almost felt refreshed, physically. He crossed over to the master bathroom, brushing his teeth and gargling with mouthwash before returning to the bedroom. He walked over to the closet door, where the other blouse and dress that he’d bought still hung from coathangers. “I… I’m gonna get dressed. Which one do you want?”

“Paul, they’re your clothes.”

Paul chewed on his lip and took the dress off its hanger, lining it up level against him. The hem fell two or three inches above his knee. He turned around, dress in hand, and started to head back to the bathroom, but Gene spoke again before he got there.

“Don’t wear things just because you think I’ll like them.”

“I’m not.”

“Paul.” Gene got up from the bed. “I gave it a lot of thought last night. I haven’t helped you out like I needed to.”

“Gene, all you’ve done is help me out.”

“I’ve hurt your self-respect. I told you what to do. I made you dependent on me.”

“I was depending on you way before this. You just didn’t realize it.”

“Not that way.” Gene walked up to him. Paul draped the dress over one arm like a waiter’s napkin. “I made you feel like you had to—to wear things, to do things, to keep my attention. I never should’ve—”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah, it is. Last night, before you left…” Gene’s gaze lowered to the floor before lifting back to meet Paul’s. “I didn’t know why you were acting like that. I’d thought you wanted me.”

There it was. There it was, closer than Paul had ever dared to put it himself. There was his chance. He could shut it all down right now, seal off any hope of Gene ever getting close enough to hurt again, do what last night had, somehow, failed to manage. Drive Gene away with an assurance that what he’d done, he’d done out of practicality. Tell Gene he’d used him all the way around, that every flirt, every kiss, had just been a means to an end. Lie to him the way he couldn’t lie to himself.

He had to struggle to keep looking Gene in the eye. The nerves that the Quaaludes and drinks had destroyed were all back again; he was keenly, so keenly aware of what he stood to lose. Gene’s expression was guilty, almost penitent, and that hurt, too, but—maybe there was something past that. Maybe there was still some desire left in him. Maybe, even, if it wasn’t the same as what Paul felt, it would still be okay. Paul wanted to believe that. He took a breath, and said three words.

“You weren’t wrong.”

“What?”

“I did want you.”

“C’mon, Paul. You know my ego could use a little knocking down.”

“I did want you. I do want you.”

“Paul—”

It felt like he was walking through water, every movement artificially slowed down. Two steps to close in on Gene. The reach of his hand to touch Gene’s face, the morning stubble he hadn’t yet shaved, tugging his chin down to kiss him. Just once, quickly, softly. Gene didn’t stiffen up, didn’t draw back, but he didn’t answer immediately, either. As he broke the kiss, looking at Gene, trying to gauge his expression, Paul realized, offhand, that he’d had to raise up on the balls of his feet just to reach him. He hadn’t even noticed.

“You’re not gonna want me after. I know that.”

“I don’t know that I’d say that.”

“I would.” Paul’s mouth crooked upward, only a little wobbly. The words seemed to spill out of him like the water from a burst dam. “That’s why I acted like that. That’s why I left, because I knew.”

“Paul, listen—” Gene started, but Paul cut him off.

“It’s okay. I… I haven’t treated you right. You’ve been real good to me and I—” Paul shook his head. “Let’s try, all right? If you still want to—I wanna try.”

“I—”

“I don’t think I could go all the way yet. But I wanna be with you.”

“Don’t push yourself. Especially not after last night.”

“I’m not pushing myself.”

“Paul, I’m serious.”

“I’m serious, too.”

Gene didn’t answer for awhile. Paul felt frozen in front of him, biting back a thousand more words, swallowing every impulse to spill his guts even further. He wouldn’t hold eight years of want over Gene’s head like a ransom that needed to be paid. He wouldn’t beg Gene again. He wouldn’t yell at him, or throw a fit. And he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t give himself up, any more than he had already. He couldn’t.

Gene’s hand touched his cheek. He seemed to be thinking. Gene always seemed to be thinking. Paul took a few quick breaths, until Gene bent his head and met Paul’s lips with his own. Warm lips he’d already half-given up on touching again. Paul kissed back hard, suddenly desperate, arms looping around the back of Gene’s neck. Beyond eager, beyond grateful, wanting to erase the memory of last night on the bed. Touching him the way he’d wanted to before. Kissing him the way he’d wanted to before, the way he’d done when they were dancing. Gene’s tongue was in his mouth, one hand tangling against in his hair while the other tugged him tight against him.

Paul was getting wet, like before, trying to grind against Gene like he still had a dick, like any movement of his hips right now, standing up, was granting him half the friction it was giving Gene. Gene was tugging him backwards before long, back towards the bed. Paul let him. His whole body felt hot and just on the verge, already unraveled over so little. Gene eased him into sitting on the bed and he scooted backwards, swinging his legs across the bed.

Gene didn’t go for the zipper of his dress this time. He seemed almost cautious, only kissing him on the mouth and neck, not yet even groping his chest. Paul reached behind him, sliding the zipper down, down, sliding the dress off. More purposely exposed than Gene had seen him until now, nothing remaining but the thin, purple nightie and panties. He was trying not to squirm as he felt Gene’s gaze on him, but he couldn’t seem to help himself, fingers curling around the nightie’s hem. When he’d put it on late yesterday afternoon, he’d realized how short it was, the hem only barely skirting the upper part of his thighs, and how the silky material strained against his breasts. It had sort of warmed him, then, made him feel a little hopeful, a little desirable. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah. It looks good on you.”

“I got it for you.”

Gene hesitated.

“That’s what I mean, you don’t need to wear things to—”

“I’m not—”

“What… what I mean is, you had my attention already.”

Paul felt the heat rise in his cheeks. He didn’t know how to answer that. Gene didn’t seem to be waiting on an answer, anyway, one hand sliding up his thigh, beneath the nightie, tracing the soft skin there and the spreading wetness on his panties. His other hand went for one breast, squeezing it, sending another surge of need through Paul’s body. He’d tried groping his own breasts a few times, before Gene came, never getting anywhere with it. It had been about as pleasurable as rubbing a hand against his knee. But now that Gene was touching them, tweaking one already-hard nipple and then the other, Paul found himself groaning, back arching. On some level it was almost humiliating, to be crying out over so little. Gene’s other hand had only barely started rubbing him through the damp fabric.

Gene tugged Paul up on his lap before long, Paul’s legs splayed on either side of him, the nightie bunched up above his hips. Gene’s erection was rubbing up against him, too tantalizingly close to be avoidable now, and Paul held his breath, half-expecting Gene’s slow strokes to stop entirely, but they didn’t. Paul grunted a bit, tugging the elastic of Gene’s boxers down just enough to free his dick.

“Lemme suck you off,” he urged, starting to scoot back, although the twitch of Gene’s fingers, finally sliding beneath his panties, made it almost impossible to want to get off of him for that long. “You haven’t gotten a damn thing out of this yet.”

“I don’t know about that.” Gene was smiling, running his fingers against his slick folds, Paul pushing his hips forward to meet them. “Just give me a hand here. I’ve got a great view.”

“C’mon, you… you can’t just want a handjob.” It had to be disappointing enough just keeping it to fooling around in the first place with him. Paul hadn’t even been brave enough to take off the nightgown. Paul grasped Gene’s dick anyway, almost unprompted, his own strokes firmer and more assured than he’d expected. He watched Gene take a deep breath, his cock already twitching a bit in his hand. “I’ve blown guys before, I’m not a virgin there—"

“Maybe later.” Gene grinned, pressed a kiss to his throat. “You know, I never actually got to see you relax the other night.” His finger ran lightly across the edge of his clit, too lightly.

“You felt it,” Paul protested, distracted. It was already getting hard to concentrate. He didn’t want to halfass it, especially when part of him could still barely believe it was happening at all. Especially when he knew, from rare, scattered conversations early on when they’d toured, that Gene tried to avoid masturbating much—which had always struck Paul as weird. Gene’s selective orthodoxy and hang-ups were so baffling. He shifted, rolling his hips harder against Gene’s fingers and hand.

“Let me see it.”

Oh. _Oh._ Paul was crying out again, cursing as he tried to focus, keep a rhythm going despite his own arousal. The precome already dripping from the tip was gratifying, Gene’s breaths getting ragged, but he didn’t know if it was enough. Gene kept watching him, watching his face. Every high-pitched sound that came out of Paul’s throat was hotly embarrassing, not in the least because Gene was quieter in comparison, while Paul’s moaning was only ever covered up when his lips met Gene’s. But Gene was getting less cautious now, groping his breasts beneath the nightie instead of just through it, the skin-on-skin sensation almost overwhelming. His other hand, caught between Paul’s thighs, was certain, slipping along his folds, finger running small strokes against the hood and clit.

Gene was already closer than he was. Paul could tell that by the feel of his dick in his hand, and the expressions crossing his face, making him redouble his efforts. Paul’s vision swam, his own concentration faltering far before Gene came, groaning lowly, spurting mostly in his hand and on his dick, a bit of come ending up on Paul’s bare thigh. Paul let go, bracing his damp hand on the bed, leaning forward. Gene’s own hand had gone almost still between his legs. The blissed-out look on Gene’s face almost made up for it.

“Hey, Paul, you haven’t—” Gene started, fingers moving again, not quite as intently as before. Paul grabbed his wrist, tugging it back.

“Wait. Let’s try something else.”

Gene looked a little confused but moved his hand away, starting to rest it on his leg. Paul shook his head.

“Not there. I need that.”

“You need that?” Gene furrowing his brows post-coital would’ve been funny, if Paul wasn’t battling his own arousal. The heat was starting to rise in his cheeks as he took Gene by the wrist again, setting it on the sheets. He wasn’t quite able to look Gene in the eye again yet, so he ran his fingers against the warm, soft fabric of his boxers, rolling up the hem of one leg slightly, mouth pursed.

“You’ll see.”

Paul closed his eyes briefly, breaths heavy, and scooted in closer, shifting until he was straddling one of Gene’s thighs. He made only a token effort at wiping his right hand off on the sheet before clasping both hands around the back of Gene’s neck, as he started to rub himself against Gene’s leg.

Gene’s lips parted in surprise. Unbelievably, he actually looked like he didn’t know what to do at first, hands taking awhile to find their way back to Paul, one resting on his shoulder while the other slipped back under the nightie to rove over his stomach and back up to his breasts. Pairing that with Paul’s own grinding made it all the more intense, stimulation almost overwhelming. His damp panties were barely a barrier, exactly the extra friction he needed as he rocked his hips in short, quick bursts. Every so often, his leg would brush up against Gene’s dick—still soft for now, but still its own sharp thrill. Warm. As long as he was this close, this wet, he wasn’t nearly so worried about how letting him, about how actually fucking, would end it. It was just something else spurring on his arousal, a promise of something to come.

“You’re killing me, Paul.”

“Yeah?” Paul’s mouth twitched into a small smile as Gene tugged him into a kiss.His legs were clamping tight around Gene’s thigh nearly of their own accord, amping up the pressure, concentrating it. Paul was panting and groaning again before long. His clit was throbbing, the wetness that had already soaked through his underwear going past it, making Gene’s bare skin and the edge of his boxers slightly slick. Easy to push and rub up against, find the exact right rhythm to leave him breathless.

But it wasn’t quite enough until Gene pulled him forward just a bit, just until Paul found himself panting against his neck. Paul sped up a little, hips rocking, moans and curses all he seemed able to manage as the pleasure built up, closer, closer. He realized, dimly, that he was starting to finally get used to this body, figure out what he liked now, how to get off. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, not that it mattered right now. Gene was still watching, his gaze, the unfettered, needy want there making Paul feel heady. Looking him right in the eye was better than before, better than it had been in the dark. He cried out again, sharply, as he finally came, clutching Gene hard as he rode out his orgasm. It was a few seconds before he let go, Gene’s grip on his shoulder not loosening up until Paul relaxed his legs again.

“Gene,” he said. “That… that was good.”

“Yeah? Good.” Gene grinned. “You look cute when you come.”

Paul glanced down reflexively at the comment, shaking his head. The spunk on his hand and on the sheets was long since clotted up. He started to get up from Gene’s thigh, a little shakily, straightening his underwear and pushing down the nightie with his clean hand. He felt a little like apologizing—it couldn’t have been that good for Gene, who probably hadn’t had a chick stop at a handjob with him in ten years, and Paul knew he couldn’t have been that fun to watch get off, either, if only because of what it wasn’t—but Gene didn’t look unhappy with the way things had gone at all. He looked pleased, maybe almost sated, running his hand almost possessively down the wet spot Paul had left behind on his thigh and boxers, rubbing the fluid between his fingertips. Paul’s face felt hot as Gene brought his fingers to his lips.

“You taste pretty good, too.”

“Aw, c’mon, Gene--”

“You do.”

Paul shook his head, but his heart was beating a hard, hopeful cadence at the words. He didn't quite feel sated. There was a weird leftover warmth in him, a deep-down feeling that he could probably go again without much trouble, but he felt like he'd asked too much of Gene already. It'd probably be another ten minutes at least before Gene could get hard again.

"Uh. Lemme get you a towel or something, then we can… I don't know, I can fix some toast…" Paul trailed, awkward as all hell, starting to scoot off the bed. He'd forgotten how to handle anyone in the after. Gene, especially. Gene looked at him as if he were about to laugh.

“You’ll really leave it at that?”

“I’m not leaving it at anything.” Paul tried to rearrange his face into as bland an expression as he could, too keenly aware of how tightly he was still pressing his thighs together. Gene laughed, tugging him back up by the arm, back nearly into place on his lap. He wasn’t facing him head-on this time, at first, but he turned his head, a vague sort of hope making his pulse flit. “C’mon, Gene, I know you can’t—”

“You have a hard time enjoying anything, don’t you?”

Oh, God. Just like last time, Gene was picking the worst point possible to start asking questions. Paul hesitated.

“I enjoy plenty.”

“You’re still soaking.” Gene had gone for the hem of the nightie, tugging it up and pressing a finger against his panties, making Paul twitch anew. “I bet you could go again. Maybe more than once.”

“I don’t know—’

“You wanna try?” Gene leaned in, kissing the top of his head. Just as easy and thoughtless as if they really were together. As if this wasn’t going to evaporate the second Paul gathered up enough nerve to give in entirely. Why shouldn’t he be thoughtless about it? _I want you_ was all Paul had managed to own up to.

Paul shoved those thoughts aside as hard as he could, and turned around entirely, tracing his hand down Gene’s chest. Gene, to his credit, barely winced at the cold, not nearly inadvertent smear of come from Paul’s hand.

“Depends. Would you go down on me for it?”

The glint in Gene’s eye gave him away long before he even licked his lips.


	20. i would have run away but i was on my own

Gene was lying on his side, fingers hooked under the elastic of Paul’s panties, before he finally asked.

“Hold on. Would this… undo the curse?”

Paul could feel the strain in his own expression as he shook his head.

“I don’t think it would.”

“What did she tell you?” Gene looked a little pensive, which was frustrating. Paul still felt like he’d mostly been a burden on Gene, and useless eye candy when he wasn’t, and yet there was nothing more profoundly irritating than the promise of oral with zero delivery. Especially when Paul was already on his back for it. Sure, Paul had never seen Gene go down on anyone, but he’d seen Gene go through plenty of girlfriends far better-looking than he was. Something had to be tethering them to him. And even if he wasn’t great at it, Paul didn’t think it was going to matter. He’d get off again anyway. He’d gotten wet just from Gene touching his shoulder a couple nights prior.

“She told me to get fucked. I’m—pretty sure this is still third base.”

Gene snapped the panty elastic against Paul’s hip, making Paul’s thighs twitch.

“Okay.” Gene started tugging the underwear down then. Paul raised his hips in an effort to make it easier, then his legs. His nerves were starting to get to him again, stupidly, for all he knew it was nothing Gene hadn’t touched before. For all he knew that Gene was being kind. Not even trying to hike up the nightie. Not that it was necessary for just going down—or at all, really, but Gene hadn’t really tried to get him undressed since last night. Gene probably thought he was far more uncomfortable having this body than he actually was, or else ashamed—well, he _was_ ashamed. He didn’t really like how he looked under normal circumstances. No amount of chest-baring jumpsuits or tight leather pants had ever come close to changing that. The clothes he’d been wearing lately, the blouses and dresses, all of that wasn’t any better long-term for his ego, really. Just a lot of pretense. He couldn’t feel desirable on his own merits, no matter what skin he occupied.

But there was a worse edge to stripping down than just not liking what he saw. He’d never been Gene’s type before and wouldn’t be Gene’s type again, no matter how Gene tried to spare his feelings about it. But something about actually stripping down completely felt final. One step closer to getting rid of the curse. One less reason for Gene to stay interested. Except… except he wondered. Except deep down he wanted Gene to get a look before he had to, before they really ended things, wanted Gene to touch him without any barriers at all.

Gene had tossed his panties to the floor, distracting him, if only briefly, from his thoughts. Paul fidgeted despite himself as he gathered up what guts he had remaining, shifting until he was almost sitting up.

“I… I never let you see.” Slowly, he lifted the nightie up and over his head, letting it drop to the floor. His stomach wasn’t any more taut and flat than it was as a man; that hateful little bit of fat that peeked out when he sat down was still there, on full display now. Terrible figure compared to what Gene was used to from those girls at Hugh Hefner’s mansion. A waist that wasn’t narrow enough, hips that jutted out too much. A visible happy trail that started an inch or two above his navel, spilling down into a thatch of black curls. He could feel Gene’s stare on him, roving, assessing, making him feel more acutely bare than ever. His clit was throbbing, even though Gene hadn’t even touched him again yet. “But apart from the tits, there’s really not a whole lot to look at.”

“Not a whole lot to look at? C’mon, Paul.”

“It’s true. I’m not a Playmate over here.”

“I’m not wanting a Playmate over here. I’m wanting you.”

Gene kissed him before he could argue. Paul kissed back eagerly, letting himself get eased down against the mattress. Gene’s breath was hot against his skin as he moved down from his mouth to his neck, finally circling his tongue around one peaked nipple while his hand dove back between Paul’s thighs. Paul shuddered beneath him, heat flooding every inch of his body. Gene was getting hard again already, rubbing maybe unconsciously against Paul’s bare leg, the cloth of his boxers all that kept Paul from feeling it directly. Some part of him wanted to. Maybe not just the blowjob he’d promised; maybe he could let him thrust between his thighs, if that weren’t just too damn close to fulfillment. Gene’s hand was familiar now; Gene knew exactly how to touch him, and between it and his tongue, Paul was crying out in earnest again. His whole body felt like a live wire with every stroke of Gene’s fingers and palm. God, Gene would get him to another orgasm before his mouth got between his thighs if he didn’t stop him.

“God, you’re so fucking wet. I’ve never—”

Paul grabbed his wrist, silencing what he was almost certain was a lot of cheesy dirty talk. Gene lifted his head after another lap at his breast, looking amused.

“Paul, I’m getting to that, I promise.”

“No.” It was taking his last bits of borrowed bravery to manage the words, his face flushed, eyes barely able to stay on Gene’s as he spoke. “I wanna see you taste it.”

He’d done it earlier, sure, licking up that little bit of dampness on his thigh. But there hadn’t been much there. Paul hadn’t gotten a good look. He wanted that, before Gene really got started. He wanted to see just how much Gene was into it.

There was no hesitation. Gene actually seemed enthralled. He skimmed his wet fingers up Paul’s stomach on the way, earning another few twitches. Confirming what Paul was already aware of—he really was soaking. Then he shifted, other hand on Paul’s arm, using it as leverage as he leaned in. The best view possible, a front row seat. Gene raised his fluid-coated hand to his mouth immediately, licking it thoroughly clean from his palm all the way up to his fingertips. He didn’t make a huge show of it, exactly, not really extending his tongue quite as overtly as he’d expected, or lapping past when all the juices were gone. But Gene was grinning as he did it, and the sight still sent warmth straight down Paul’s spine, heartbeat pounding in his ear. Far better than any spoken reassurance. The slickness between his thighs was beginning to spread to the sheets beneath him.

“It’s good. Wanna try?”

“I…” Paul paused. “I’ll pass.”

“All right. If you change your mind…” Gene trailed, almost laughing when Paul rolled his eyes and impatiently pushed at his shoulder. “Okay, okay. I’ll take care of you.”

He groped at Paul’s breasts a bit more before sinking lower, kissing down his stomach briefly. But he didn’t tease much further than that, tongue only barely brushing at the inside of his thighs before those first long, smooth laps stroked against his pussy.

“Oh—oh, God…”

It wasn’t anything like having his dick sucked. The pleasure seemed to well up differently, deeper. Gene’s tongue laving and lapping further inside him than he’d ever managed with his own fingers. His thighs tensed and tightened around his head, but Gene seemed to like that, too, or at least he didn’t protest. Not even when Paul’s right leg started jerking all on its own in excitement the first time Gene’s tongue focused right on his clit, and he ended up kneeing him in the head. Paul flushed, embarrassment pushing past arousal, until Gene lifted his head, face soaked with his fluids. He was grinning.

“Was that too much?”

Paul shook his head.

“No, no, keep—it’s good, I… keep going, I’ll, um…” he trailed, lowering his knees until they were flat on the mattress, trying to spread his legs out further.

“You don’t have to move unless you want to. I’ll take the risk.”

And then Gene was back at it. Soft, quick licks against his clit while his fingers rubbed and spread his folds. Paul managed a few stammered curses and cries. His own fingers ran against the sheets until they found a better grip on Gene’s hair, at first tugging the strands mindlessly, then starting to direct him with the pulls, shoving his hips in against Gene’s face and tongue as the pleasure reached its peak.

“Oh, oh, oh, _fuck_ —”

One last sharp tug at Gene’s hair, one last cry, and it was over, leaving his legs trembling, breaths heavy. Gene nuzzled his pussy with his nose before finally raising up a bit, one hand on Paul’s thigh, waiting out those last few seconds as Paul’s breathing eased backed to normal.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Paul reached out, rubbing his hand against Gene’s scalp, the traces of sweat there among the frizzy curls. His heart had stopped thudding so hard, but he still felt warm and full. At ease. He sat up slowly, having to prop himself up on his hands to do it, folding his knees under him.

“I think you’ve still got something for me.”

Gene didn’t seem have the shyness left in him to flush.

“I just might.”

“I hope so.” Paul tossed one of the pillows over the side of the bed, then followed it down, sinking to his knees as he gestured for Gene to sit. “C’mon. Lemme take care of that for you.”

\--

Paul made devastatingly quick work of him. Just watching that pretty mouth first take in his cock had felt like enough to send Gene over the edge. He hadn’t been bluffing before; Paul had clearly sucked off guys before, just from how comfortable he was, how sure and certain every movement of his mouth and hands was. He didn’t take him all the way into his throat, but that might’ve been at least in part because Gene came before he got there. No way of knowing.

He’d swallowed him down, too, something that made Gene’s early orgasm almost worth it, that pleased expression that crossed Paul’s face, like he’d just sung to a whole football stadium’s worth of fans. He couldn’t remember Paul ever looking at him like that before.

Afterwards, Gene had gathered him back up on the bed, pulling him in tight, taking in the scent and feel of him warm and naked in his arms. By his own accounts, at least, Paul wasn’t too much for post-coital cuddling, so Gene was slightly surprised at Paul’s eagerness, the way he wrapped himself around him, rubbing his back and shoulders with his hand like he still couldn’t get enough touch.

Paul ended up falling asleep a little bit after. Gene watched him, feeling eerie about it, still half-concerned that oral might count as virginity loss, despite Paul’s reassurances earlier. He wondered if his body might start shifting back like something out of a monster movie, and he’d end up with at least a hundred and sixty pounds of Paul on top of him, but nothing happened. Paul looked just the same. Felt just the same curled up against him, soft breasts pressed against his chest, one leg hooked around his.

He could get used to this, and he knew he shouldn’t.

Gene lay there for awhile, almost still, thinking. He played with Paul’s hair—the curls were almost completely matted up now; it’d been a long time since they’d looked quite this hopeless—and pushed a kiss against Paul’s forehead. Paul shifted a little at the touch, eyes flitting open as he made a murmuring sound.

“Ngh… Gene?”

“Nothing.” And then, because Paul was still looking at him with that sleepy, warm kind of curiosity, he added, “I just… thought you looked really pretty like that.”

“What, asleep? Pervert.” Paul smiled a little, fingers poking against the side of Gene’s back, teasing.

“No. Peaceful.”

“Peaceful?” Paul laughed, shaking his head. “You’re real sentimental, did you know that?”

“You’re the first one to tell me.” Gene shifted and stretched his arms a bit. “Are you hungry?”

It felt like a stupid question to ask. He thought Paul might be insulted by it, somehow, like he’d expected Gene to start attempting to get romantic with him, sweet nothings and all that bullshit instead of something practical, but Paul actually seemed relieved, nodding.

“Yeah. But I think we’re out of pizza.”

“We are.”

“Well, you saw my pantry.” Paul got up, affably enough, taking the jeans from yesterday out of the hamper, and another pair of underwear from the drawer, stepping into them as he spoke. Downright nonchalant. Even the way he was carrying himself was different, easier. Lighter. “I can make you lunch, but…”

“I thought I’d take you out.”

“Take me out?”

“Well, you could still drive, but…” Gene trailed. “It’s not too late. We could get brunch.”

He didn’t quite think Paul would agree to it. Paul hadn’t gone out to eat with him the entire time, all their meals relegated to fast food, takeout, and delivery. Not that Gene minded any of the three, but it felt a little too much like… like being on the road, like being in a hurry. He wanted to relax, at least for a bit.

There was more to it than that. Gene figured Paul knew it, too.

“Sure. Sounds good.” Paul paused. “But please tell me you’ve still got some clean clothes left.”

“I can neither confirm or deny—”

“Oh, Jesus.” Paul groaned, retrieving his bra from the floor, taking it by one strap and putting it over his wrist as he considered. “Okay, get some of my clothes.”

“I don’t think they’ll fit.”

“You can fit my pajamas—”

“But those are pajamas, they have the elastic—”

“Please, you didn’t gain that much weight.” He opened the door to the walk-in closet, motioning Gene inside. “Or maybe I just didn’t lose that much. It… it fluctuates. Go ahead and pick something.”

“Paul…”

It took awhile. The fact that Paul was digging through the closet shirtless, braless, and blithe made it all the more distracting. He seemed more comfortable, physically, than he had been before. Gene was seriously afraid he might end up having to go out wearing a pair of Paul’s sweatpants, but thankfully, Paul pulled out a few pairs of jeans and slacks in a size Gene was only a few pounds from fitting comfortably. He’d deal with it.

“I guess you’re in my pants now.”

“I thought I got there already.”

Paul snorted.

“If you want a shirt…” he trailed, waving his hand towards a couple dozen button downs, about a third of which could only be charitably described as blouses. Gene sighed, checking the sizing.

“Are these supposed to be buttoned up?”

“Well, that’s gonna depend on you, really.” Paul tilted his head, considering. “I’ve got some more t-shirts in the dresser, if you’d rather.”

“Nah. That’d cut down too much on your nightwear.”

Paul crooked a tiny smile, finally putting on the bra, more bizarrely than Gene had ever seen an actual girl do. Putting it on backwards, which meant he was smashing his chest just to clasp it together, and then turning the whole bra around from there. Gene stared, almost wanting to laugh or ask him if he needed help, but he swallowed his commentary, for once. Paul’s next words made him grateful he had.

“Play your cards right, and maybe I’ll skip the t-shirt tonight.”

“Is that a promise?”

“That’s a maybe.”

“I’ll take it.” Gene grinned, taking out a vaguely patterned blue button-down from a hanger and tugging it on—it was loose in the neck, predictably, but the fabric strained everywhere else. Paul’s mild wince as he started to button it only compounded his doubts there, making him add, ruefully, “Actually, I think I’ll take a t-shirt, too.”


	21. she told me later she's a machine operator

Paul ended up driving them to a Japanese restaurant about an hour later, even though they’d had Chinese takeout just a few days prior. Gene felt a bit underdressed in Paul’s tee and waistband-digging jeans, for all he was trying to avoid getting recognized. Then again, Paul was only in the other blouse he’d bought and the jeans from yesterday, so maybe it didn’t matter.

But it felt like it did. It kept nagging at him. Paul hadn’t dressed up, but he had put on a little makeup. He’d even tried to do something with his hair. He knew exactly what this was. He knew Gene really was taking him out.

Gene thought he’d be more nervous about the whole deal than he was. Paul was still getting the door for him, and part of Gene hated himself a bit for realizing he’d miss that, too. It wasn’t going to be as endearing once he was back to normal. None of Paul’s little quirks would be.

Gene felt ashamed over it. He really did. Paul was the same person, with or without tits, but that didn’t mean Gene was going to stay interested once they were out of the equation. Paul had said he wouldn’t be. And that really hadn’t even been the only time. Paul had kept hinting at it long before. _I bet you’d rather me stay a girl._ It was a horrible thing to even own up to fantasizing about. Even if Paul had dealt with it fairly well, at least over the last few days. He’d taken to all the superficial trappings of being a chick pretty readily, the makeup and heels and so on, but that was probably because all that was stuff he already did as a man. Beyond that, he wasn’t really playing at being a girl very well. Wasn’t trying to.

Could he really feel the same way about Paul once they took care of the curse? Once Paul felt ready to give it up? And it’d have to be soon; even not counting the tour, eventually, Paul’s parents or Bill Aucoin or someone would call in a missing person report. Would he still want Paul then?

Gene wasn’t sure. He’d lay a woman whether she was pretty or not, but he’d never fucked a guy, and never been interested in the prospect. But it kept nagging at him anyway. Trying to picture Paul back to normal was almost hard, when he was sitting there in front of him. Looking cute as hell with his hair fluffed like cotton candy and another low-cut blouse on. Looking happy. Normally, Gene would get a little disappointed, hanging around once the clothes were off a chick, even one he was dating. He never could help feeling like something had been—oh, not spoiled, exactly, but—like something had been… lived-in, maybe. Like a month into owning a car, when the clean smell of the dealership was gone. No longer new, and disappointingly his.

But watching Paul chatting amiably about nothing—no, not nothing, he was talking about maybe trying to visit Japan off-tour, sometime, get some real sightseeing in, instead of hasty bus rides—just brought back to mind the image of a couple hours ago. Those pretty lips wrapped around his cock, or, almost better yet, parted in a plaintive cry. Fuck, Paul could scream, and it was somehow almost appealing, how he kept trying not to do it but ended up moaning all the louder.

Gene didn’t feel like he’d lost interest once he’d gotten Paul naked. It had just given him more to explore. Not just those sensitive breasts or the taste of his juices, either. Not everything was carnal. He hadn’t realized the guy had any freckles, for one, although maybe some of them had just been buried in the carpet of his chest hair prior. Maybe he’d just never had a reason to look.

Gene’s stomach growled, and he decided he needed to quit while he was ahead. Paul was starting to look at him funny, and nudging him under the table with his foot. They ordered platters of teriyaki chicken, fried rice, and sushi rolls, Gene carefully checking the ingredient list and grilling the waitress about the fish used while Paul, predictably, ignored kosher and got exactly what he wanted.

“Maybe that’s why you got cursed,” Gene teased, once Paul started eating his California rolls. Paul made a face.

“Very funny.” He took a long gulp of his water. The guy had to have been starving after throwing up last night. “She was just… I don’t know if I can explain it.”

Paul hadn’t tried to explain it, either. Not that Gene had pressed, back in the limo last night, when Paul had looked pale and shaken-up about the whole deal. But he’d been curious. Paul and Carol had been down in the basement nearly past the twenty minutes he’d allotted. Long enough for Paul to find out exactly why she’d done that to him.

“Go ahead.”

Paul hesitated.

“It’s… Gene, do you ever think about the groupies? I mean, really think about them.”

“No.”

“I didn’t, either.” Paul seemed to try to laugh, and then he wiped at his mouth. “I… I remember getting kind of dopey over some chick when we were still playing ballrooms. Then I found out she’d let half the New York Dolls screw her.”

“I don’t know why that stopped you.”

“Because that meant it wasn’t… that meant I didn’t matter to her, if she’d just let me the same way she’d let them. It was too… shit, I can’t be talking like this out in public.”

“Why not?”

Paul stared at him for a long moment before shaking his head.

“Because people can hear me.”

“Barely anyone’s here, Paul.”

Paul took another few bits of rice, using his chopsticks. He still wasn’t good with them, but he liked to pretend. World traveler Paul. Meanwhile, Gene was diving into his own rice with a fork, getting easily triple as much per bite. Far more efficient.

“Yeah, but we’re not in the Village or any of that shit.”

“Are you that afraid of getting looked at dirty? You know that’s all anyone would do.”

“I’ll tell you in the car,” he said, and reached for another piece of sushi.

\--

Paul made good on his promise. Once lunch was done (the owner had actually dropped by their table and given them small bowls of ice cream on the house, which Paul seemed very chipper about) and he was out of the restaurant parking lot, he started in again. Offhand and abrupt, one hand worryingly on the radio dial. He seemed to be trying to find a traffic report.

“I guess I thought the girls got off on it.”

“No shit, Paul.”

“No, listen. I thought they all did that with every rockstar that came to town.” Paul finally stopped fooling with the dial, turning up the volume. Gene half-wondered why, when Paul didn’t even live in New York proper anymore, and probably wasn’t going to hit boatloads of traffic on the way back. “I thought… I hoped they understood how it was.”

“They all know they’re never gonna see you again.” Gene shifted uncomfortably. “You have fun one night, and that’s it. They take a good memory back.”

“Carol didn’t.”

Gene didn’t answer for awhile. The silence wafted up like summer haze above the pavement. When Paul didn’t elaborate, Gene spoke again.

“Why did she do that to you? Just because she didn’t have a good time with you?”

“No. That’s not it. She just… shit, Gene.” Paul let out a long breath. “She wanted something I couldn’t give her.”

“She wanted to date you? Paul, that’s really not your fault, if she didn’t understand—”

“Well, I didn’t deserve to get cursed over it, but… fuck, I don’t know.” Paul’s eyes were dark. Not unreadable, just pensive. “We go out there and we say all that bullshit. We love the fans. We love the girls. We… we do the teenybopper mags. It… Bill’s so smart, y’know, you got the girls that want you and the ones that want me and Peter and Ace and so on, right on down to a type—”

“Paul, I don’t think I’m following you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you saying you wanna be honest with the girls? You want to put in print that they don’t matter to you?” Gene shook his head. “It’s showbiz, Paul. You can’t be everything to everybody. The girls ought to know better. It’s not on you if any of them really think they’ve got a chance.”

“We’ve let them think they do.” Paul was starting to look a little nerved-out by his own words. “They’re not getting that idea out of thin air, Gene. We… we’ve got a little bit of responsibility here.”

“I’m allergic to that word in that context.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It makes me think of paternity lawsuits.”

He’d expected Paul to laugh, but he didn’t. Just kept driving in silence, switching the station again once they started playing music. It seemed like he was going into the traffic, rather than away from it. Maybe he’d wanted to stop somewhere before heading back home.

“They’ve got feelings, though, don’t they?” God, Paul was still at it. “I didn’t ever mean to hurt them, but I did. I didn’t really start to understand until…”

The ice cream felt suddenly like a brick of milk in Gene’s stomach.

“Until what?”

“Until you said we could take a picture for your album.”

“Paul, that was a shitty joke, I didn’t mean—”

“I know. I know.” Paul sighed, and beeped the horn at the taxi in front of him. Gene saw the cabbie roll down the window and stick his hand out, flipping him off. Paul returned the favor, but kept on talking as he did it. “I figured if… if I didn’t wanna be treated like that, like something to… to collect, then maybe some of them didn’t, either.”

Gene couldn’t think of anything to say. That was rare enough to be worrisome. His girls were different from Paul’s, anyway. He didn’t have that sappy, sensitive lover image that Paul did, that’d make for clingy mental cases. His girls just wanted kinky sex, topped off with his tongue between their legs. But he couldn’t shrug off the feeling that Paul was onto something. Something a little bit terrible.

He’d been on the road long enough to get a sense of demographics. The girls in the Midwest and places like Utah, in their way, were a real treat, eager to do anything to please. Gene hadn’t ever even had a threesome, but he’d fucked around a bit with BDSM, that kind of thing. He’d noticed the cornfed, good-girl, hometown types, they were the most likely to be up to indulging something weird.

He’d thought it was just because they were repressed. Wanted to let loose before they ended up fat and married with five kids. It had never hit them that it might be because they were just naïve enough to buy into what KISS was trying to sell.

“Maybe.”

He felt Paul’s eyes back on him briefly, and then they were back on the road. Gene’s sense of direction wasn’t the greatest, but he knew for sure now that the route Paul was taking went nowhere near his house. He cleared his throat, putting his hand on Paul’s thigh.

“Paul, you’re not… I don’t want to just take your picture. You mean more to me than that.”

It was a couple of seconds before Paul nodded, resting his hand on top of Gene’s, lacing their fingers together.

“Thanks, Gene.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s true.” And then, because that still didn’t seem sufficient, because worry was starting to sink into Paul’s forehead, he leaned over on impulse, kissing him on the cheek, lips mostly brushing Paul’s hair instead. Paul’s one-handed grip on the steering wheel only faltered briefly, pink rising in his face. “Where are we going?”

“You don’t know?” Paul started to smile. “C’mon, Gene. You took me out. I gotta return the favor somehow.”

“It’s New York, you could be taking us anywhere.”

“We’re heading to Central Park.” Paul patted Gene’s hand, and then shifted it to dig around in the middle console. “Real romantic, I know. Feed some geese, get out there in a rowboat… c’mon and check for me, Gene, I think I’ve got just enough change for the parking meter, even…”

“What about the carousel?”

“Sure, if you want—”

“Great.” Gene’s hand was inching gradually up Paul’s thigh. “I think it’d be a fun ride.”

Paul smacked his hand away.


	22. she said she liked the way i held the microphone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Gene and Paul's date continues, with romantic rowboating and taunts by small children.

It was pretty outside, warm and sunny, with a slight breeze wafting through. Nature had always been a novelty at best for Gene; he’d been stuck on enough tour buses through rural two-lane highways and woodsy areas to be spooked by anything that wasn’t curated. Still, Central Park was a refreshing contrast to the cloistered, dingily glitzy feel of CBGB and Studio 54.

It wasn’t quite tourist season—as if New York had a tourist season anymore—and right at spring finals for the college kids. The only ones really out, for the most part, seemed to be natives. Mothers with their schoolkids, retirees getting some sun, that kind of thing. So Gene had slight misgivings about going out unmasked in the park, but Paul just tossed him his sunglasses again and dug out a wide-brimmed sunhat from the trunk for himself.

“But nobody’s going to recognize you,” Gene protested. Paul winced.

“I know. But I like the hat.”

It turned out Paul had enough change left for parking and a rowboat. Gene had fully expected Paul to toss him both oars, but Paul seemed keen on propelling the boat himself, despite his griping.

“I can’t believe they didn’t have one with the pedals,” he groused.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“It can’t be that hard.” Paul’s look of concentration made Gene tempted to smile. Why Paul was trying to impress him, he didn’t exactly know. He’d watched from a wry distance as Paul had attempted to win over girlfriend after girlfriend. He’d try to be cultured. He’d try to be romantic. He invested more in the girls he was serious about than had ever seemed to pay out for him, and he hung onto those girls until they yanked him off like a tick. God, Paul had even kept trying to make a go again with the girl who’d fucked Joe Namath behind his back. He was funny about it all, really. Once he had somebody, he didn’t want to give them up.

“Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re doing it backwards.”

“This is how they did it in the gondolas, right?”

“You’re not in a gondola.” It was hard not to laugh. Paul was rowing determinedly, moving the oars in the same direction he was facing, like he thought he was swimming. “You’ve got to go the other way with them.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah. There you go.”

There weren’t many people out on the lake in rowboats and paddleboats, but Gene still caught sight of the occasional glance his way. He didn’t think they knew who he was; they were just judging him for sitting back while Paul did all the work. Paul’s cheeks were going slightly red, even though he was slowly getting hang of it, oars starting to lap the water instead of just shoving into it like a pair of spoons. The brim of his sunhat kept flipping up whenever a good breeze started up on the water.

“And on your right,” Paul said, in as dry an imitation of a tour guide as he could manage, “we’ve got… some trees. And on your left is another dock.”

“No kidding.”

“I can keep going. We’re coming up on what’s known as a bridge…”

“Five-star narration there, Paul.”

Paul laughed.

“Hey, I dunno any poetry to woo you with. Wait, maybe…” Paul scrunched up his face as he kept rowing towards the bridge. It looked deserted, for now. “‘In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue.’”

“Well, it’s not exactly Keats…” Gene crooked a smile.

“It’s twelve years of education. Your tax dollars at work.”

“It should’ve been sixteen.”

“Do I have your heart yet?” Before Gene could answer, Paul shifted the oars back into the boat, maneuvering forward for a kiss as the boat floated beneath the bridge.

\--

After, they strode out, arm in arm, sharing a cotton candy cone. Well. Gene was eating most of it. Paul was letting him. Sappy as hell, maybe. No, definitely. Then they walked over to where the Alice in Wonderland sculptures were, the same ones that’d been there ever since Gene could remember. The kids, let loose from school, were climbing all over the whole gang.

“Don’t look now. We may have to fight them over the carousel later.”

“Oh, I think we can take them.” Paul leaned over and half-bit, half-licked another bit of cotton candy off the cone.

“I don’t know, Paul. They might be from a tough neighborhood like Brooklyn.” Gene’s attempt at Peter’s accent was as bad as always, but he said it straight-faced enough that Paul laughed. “The six-year-olds might have shivs in their belt loops.”

“Their mothers, definitely.” Paul pushed some of his hair over his shoulder with his free hand. “I don’t think I went here more than two or three times when I was their age.”

“Their mothers’?”

“Their kids, c’mon.”

“I didn’t, either,” Gene admitted. “It was too far off from Queens.”

“Yeah, but—I lived in Manhattan when I was real little, y’know. That’s when we came to the park. I remember…” Paul trailed, getting another bite, “I remember Julia dropping her ice-cream and crying about it. Then my dad said we’d just have to share, so I dropped mine out of spite—”

“And wasted the whole thing? Did you hate her that much?”

“She wouldn’t have let me eat any of it. And I knew it.” Paul shrugged. “Julia’s nuts. She was nuts even then.”

“You’re hard on her.”

“I’ve got a right to be.”

Gene didn’t know enough about Julia to really argue that. He’d seen her maybe six or seven times in all the time he’d known Paul. Sometimes he’d gotten the impression that Paul was scared of her, and he wasn’t sure why.

“Think you share any better now?”

Paul laughed.

“Nah. Not really.” But he tilted what was left of the cotton candy cone towards Gene’s face again. Gene leaned in and bit off a large cloud of pink sugar. “You got off lucky, being an only child. The king never got dethroned.”

“Isn’t Julia older than you? You’re the one that dethroned her.”

Paul shrugged.

“Well, my parents wanted a boy, so they gave it another shot…” Paul trailed dryly. “See how well that’s worked out for them.”

“This isn’t permanent.” The statement didn’t feel right. Didn’t have quite the same ring as _we’ll get you fixed_ had. But Paul just tore away another piece of cotton candy.

“That’s not what I meant.” He seemed to hesitate a little, taking a different, awkward tack. “I always wondered what only children did all day. That sounds stupid. But I… up until she was in junior high, Julia was always around, and…”

“I did the same things any other kid would. Just by myself.” Gene’s gaze traveled absently to the retirees sitting on park benches. One old lady was tossing popcorn at pigeons like alms. “Once I got to America, I read a lot of comic books, watched a lot of T.V.”

“Did you go to the movies much?”

“Not very much. I saw _The Ten Commandments_ and _Pinocchio_.”

“Everybody saw _The Ten Commandments_.”

“They don’t make epics like that anymore.”

“No. T.V. killed movies.” Paul was sucking the sugar off his fingers as they kept walking. Not a new habit on his part, probably not even something he was doing with any real intent, but it was utterly destroying Gene’s focus. “Do you really like _Pinocchio_? Or do you just say that for the kids?”

“No, I really do like it.” Gene paused. “Why are you asking?”

“Because I never did before.” Paul pinched off another chunk of cotton candy, popping it in his own mouth before Gene could teasingly reach for it himself. “Eight years and I never even asked you your favorite movie. I bet half your groupies could do better than that.”

God. Meeting Carol must have really screwed Paul up. Had him thinking that those “100 Facts About KISS” articles actually meant something. Thinking that attraction ever had much to do with facts and figures. Or maybe Paul was trying to reach beyond that, somehow, feel him out in a way he never had before. Gene wasn’t sure.

“I never asked you yours, either.”

“I don’t have one.”

“Really?”

“Really. I couldn’t honestly tell you my favorite of anything.” Paul looked a little bothered by his own admission, the expression on his face sort of like what Gene had seen yesterday morning, when he’d talked about dressing up for Studio 54. When he’d talked about wanting to belong. But then Paul started plowing through again, that look vanishing. “What’d you like _Pinocchio_ for, anyway? Please don’t tell me you had a crush on the Blue Fairy.”

“No, she didn’t have tits.” Gene considered the rest of the question for longer than he needed to. But Paul seemed to be hanging on for an answer. “ _Pinocchio_ ’s a success story.”

“A success story,” Paul repeated.

“Yeah. He wants to be a real boy, he works hard, and he gets his wish. He gets everything he ever wanted. It meant a lot to me.”

He almost said more, almost starting going into depth with it. About how he wanted to do a cover of “When You Wish Upon a Star” on his solo album, if they ever got to do them. About how Jiminy Cricket seemed to almost speak to him. The magic was still so real to him somehow, intoxicating, inevitable. His whole life since coming to America hadn’t proved him wrong. He’d gotten everything he ever wished for; he really had. Almost everything. Gene started to clear his throat, try to articulate it, but Paul’s expression had gone from intent to distant in just a few seconds.

“Oh.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” Paul shrugged, pushing the rest of the cone into Gene’s hand. “My back hurts. I should’ve let you row.”

“Want me to rub it?”

“No. I know exactly where your hands are gonna go.”

Gene finished off the cotton candy and tossed the cone into a nearby trashcan. They were nearly at the entrance for the carousel, anyway. Paul let go of his arm to dig around again in his own wallet, coming up with enough change for them both to join the handfuls of kids climbing onto the ride. More quizzical looks from the kids and even the parents, but Gene didn’t think he was getting recognized, at least not until he started for the carousel horse next to Paul’s, a large chestnut-colored one with a heavily festooned, red and green saddle. Gene hadn’t even climbed on properly when a kid, maybe six or seven, pointed at him.

“You’re too big.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re too big. You’re gonna break it.”

Paul was covering his mouth with his hand, clearly trying not to laugh, but then the little boy pointed at him, too.

“Your _girlfriend_ is, too!” He said it with the confidence and indignation that only a grammar school kid could manage, a grammar school kid that still thought girls had cooties. Gene snorted. Paul looked slightly less amused than before.

“What do we need to do?” Gene asked, focusing all his attention on the kid. A year of student teaching, a year of actual teaching, all culminating into trying to discuss a pocket change carousel ride with a six-year-old. The little boy seemed vaguely surprised, then pleased, that Gene was giving him the time of day, puffing out his chest and pursing his lips in serious consideration.

“You gotta ride _those_.” His chubby finger waggled at the chariots. Next to him, Paul came within half an inch of mumbling a curse.

“Gene, c’mon, we’re not getting off the—”

Gene raised his hand, cutting off Paul. The ride hadn’t yet started, if only due to a few mothers with toddlers that were still trying to maneuver them both onto the horses.

“I think he’s got a point. We’ve tempted fate already.”

“What?”

“Well, I really shouldn’t be out in the daylight.”

Paul blinked, but didn’t say anything, looking wary. Gene smiled, turning to the little kid as he slowly slid his sunglasses off, exposing nothing but the whites of his eyes. His tongue lolled and waggled out like a dying fish on a hook.

“Y-you’re a vampire!”

The kid fled the carousel, screaming his head off. Gene rolled his eyes forward again and put back on the sunglasses, before he mounted the horse next to Paul’s. The carousel operator, somehow unfazed, started the ride a second or two later. Except for the creaks of the machinery and the tinny piped-in music, everything had gone dead silent. The kids on horses near enough were craning their necks for a look at the undead monster sharing the carousel. Gene was about to start obliging them with more leering and tongue-sticking when his gaze went to Paul again.

Shit. If he’d been pissed-off about the whole deal at CBGB, he had to at least be annoyed at Gene getting the attention of a whole carousel full of little kids in the park. But, looking at him, listening to him, Gene was surprised. Paul was actually laughing quietly.

“What is it?”

Paul shook his head. He was grinning.

“I was just thinking. All that effort to stay on these things, and your pony doesn’t even go up and down.” He leaned over, nudging Gene’s arm lightly with his fist, his other hand still grasping the pole. “You’re a mess, you know that?”

“So are you.”


	23. i said my, my

They went home after that, stopping only to pick up some more takeout for dinner. Paul was bemoaning it a bit, and offering to make them both sandwiches instead, even when he was pulling up to the restaurant.

“I’ve gained three pounds just this past week.”

“You’ve been weighing yourself?”

Paul looked at him weirdly.

“Well, yeah. Every day.”

“Even since this happened?” Gene was a little bewildered to think that even getting cursed hadn’t been enough to distract Paul out of that particular concern.

“Yeah. I think I’m still gaining it all in the abdomen.” Paul took a disgusted glance down at himself, assuming he could even see his stomach past his chest. Gene was beginning to wonder. “We can’t keep eating like we’re on the road.”

“Can’t we?”

“Fuck, no.” Paul grimaced, shaking his head as he parked the car and turned off the engine. “I spent the entire break trying to get my weight down.”

“You look fine. Why are you so worried?”

“The costume girls’ll have a fit.”

It was the first time either of them had mentioned anything related to the tour all day. It cut through the Central Park fantasy like an Exacto knife. Gene wasn’t going to have some cute girl— _this_ cute girl—hanging on his arm for much longer. Maybe no more than a few hours.

Gene rubbed his elbow uncomfortably. Paul, gazing at his own reflection in the car mirror and pushing his hair in front of his shoulders, didn’t seem to notice, so Gene pushed the rest of his thoughts aside. They got out of the car together; Gene paid for the food, and they returned to Paul’s place soon after. Half the takeout was gone before they’d even gotten home with it. They finished off the rest at the kitchen island, then laid around on the couch awhile, T.V. running in the background while Gene read and Paul doodled.

It was kind of funny, really. Occasionally it felt like nothing had really shifted. Still watching T.V. together like they used to in the hotels, back when getting laid after the show was a distant hope and not an inevitability. Eating out of Styrofoam boxes. Joking around and shooting the shit.

The rest of the time, Gene was painfully aware of how much had shifted. There was the sex, sure, even if they hadn’t gone all the way, but that wasn’t the whole of it. He’d still have his gloomy spells, sure, but overall, Paul seemed so happy. So open. So—maybe Gene was giving himself too much credit, but Paul seemed—taken with him. He’d never been aware of anything like that out of Paul before. If those big, dark eyes had ever looked Gene’s way with half the warmth and attention he was getting now, then—well, then, Gene hadn’t noticed.

He’d thought Paul didn’t like him a bit when they’d first met, in fact. He’d been high on his own bravado, and Paul had just hung in the periphery of his circles. Somebody had introduced them, and Gene had popped off immediately, something like  _ oh, you write songs? _ , and Paul—well, he’d been Stan, and Stanley if you wanted to piss him off, back then; he hadn’t gone by Paul until a year or two later—had snapped right back with an affirmative.

He remembered asking him to play one for him, and Paul had. The song was a lousy, incoherent mash-up of the Stones, Bowie, and the Beatles at their most soused, and his playing was worse. But somehow after, they’d just… Gene didn’t know. He couldn’t remember a definitive point where they’d clicked. Paul had still been in the process of nearly flunking out of high school, while Gene was a sophomore, or maybe a junior in college. But he remembered starting to call him up after classes, inviting him to parties and jams. He remembered thinking Paul was standoffish and nervous, not cut out at all for the rockstar career he was so desperate for. But he didn’t remember ever getting the feeling Paul dug him. More that he was just lonely.

He didn’t want to delve into it too deeply. Rethink nearly ten years of interactions. It wouldn’t do any good, and it wouldn’t change any of the way things were right now. He watched Paul kick up his ankles against the arm of the couch, and finally spoke.

“What did you take us out for, anyway?”

Paul glanced up from his drawing. It was something weird and abstract, not the eerily-accurate dick sketches Gene was accustomed to out of him. Hatchmarks, parallel lines, and weird, elongated shapes were well on their way to completely covering the sketchpad.

“To pay you back. I told you.” The pencil resumed its scratch across the page.

“No, why did you really do it?”

“Because we’d never get to again.”

That was all he said for awhile. The words hung like streamers. Gene sort of wanted to argue him down, even though he wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t know exactly what Paul meant.

“You can take me out anytime.”

“Not like that.” Paul shifted abruptly. “I’m gonna go shower.”

Gene raised his head, half at the words, half at the slight thump of Paul’s sketchpad next to him on the couch.

“Want some company? I hear there’s a water shortage.”

Paul shook his head. Gene felt guilty at his own weird relief. For whatever reason, Paul wasn’t ready yet. They could keep on pretending for awhile longer.

“Maybe later tonight.”

Gene nodded. Paul’s expression seemed a little bit strained, but he turned and headed for the bedroom, not closing the door behind him. A minute or two later, Gene could hear the sound of the water running.

Then he got up, looking through the living room’s bookshelf as if he hadn’t done it prior. Paul didn’t really read for pleasure. He had stuff like  _ The Power of Positive Thinking _ ,  _ Games People Play _ ,  _ I’m OK – You’re OK _ , and a ragged copy of  _ How to Win Friends and Influence People _ , the last of which was highlighted like a book of scripture. Gene had been flipping through it while Paul drew.

Then he had magazines with his face or KISS’ picture on the front cover. No intellectual reading material at all, though that wasn’t what he was looking for. At the bottom of one shelf were Paul’s junior and senior annuals and a small line of photo albums. Gene pulled one of the older-looking albums out at random.

It was green and typical, with thick black pages. Probably one Paul’s parents had started of him. The initial contents weren’t surprising. A faded birth announcement. A taped-in lock of baby hair dated August 2, 1952—Paul’s parents hadn’t bothered with upsherin, so maybe it was no wonder he’d never had his bar mitzvah. Sepia infant photos—Gene swallowed a bit when he realized that even in the pictures where Paul was barely able to sit up on his own, the photographer had him posed with his head turned to the right, to hide the microtia. Some pictures from birthdays. A picture of him along with the rest of his second grade class. They were lined up by height, and Paul was standing towards the back, easily recognizable just from the eyes and expression. By that point, he’d apparently figured out the pose on his own; he was almost aggressively facing right, while everyone else was looking the camera head-on.

All that misery and insecurity over two square inches of missing cartilage.

Gene shook his head. He flipped past most of the rest of the pictures of Paul as a kid, past even the awkward handful from when he was a teenager, before finally coming up on photos slightly closer to current. He’d apparently kept a few Polaroids from Wicked Lester and the earliest days of KISS, before they’d even had the makeup. Then, as he turned the pages, he found a scattering of random, more recent shots. Paul goofing off in hotel rooms. Paul lounging in swim trunks by the pool. Paul in a tux sucking cake frosting off his fingers at Ace’s wedding.

He was trying to hammer in his head that this was how Paul really was and really looked. He was trying to figure out if he’d still be attracted to him once he was back to normal. If he’d feel something while he looked at the pictures. Start getting hot under the collar, maybe, the way he did with Playboy centerfolds. But—well, Paul only tried provocative poses when he had on the greasepaint, and most everything in the album was barefaced and fairly candid. Gene wasn’t sure he was feeling anything beyond some fondness while looking over pictures of Paul in front of the Eiffel Tower or eating poi in Hawaii.

That bothered him. Not that he was planning on jacking off to a stupid picture of Paul sitting shirtless on the hood of his car, but—he’d—he’d wanted something definite out of this. Arousal or repulsion. He needed to know. Whether Paul had wanted him for four days or four years, Gene owed him that much.

The dull white noise of the shower cut off. Gene put the photo album and the book back on the shelf and waited for Paul’s returning footsteps. _Maybe later tonight_ , he’d said. Maybe later than that.

\--

Paul spent longer than he meant to in there. Cleaned himself up, washed his hair and shaved. He’d gotten into the habit of shaving almost everything but his chest and sometimes his underarms because of the tours. Now that he was basically down to only having to worry about his underarms and legs, the effort took two minutes or less, leaving him just standing useless for awhile under the spray.

He knew what his next move ought to be, just as well as Gene did. Invite him in, get rid of the whole virginity problem, and get back to normal. There was no reason to keep delaying it. He’d had his time with Gene. More of it than he probably deserved, the way that they’d already wormed themselves out of the curse’s terms of consummation, like wily lawyers with contracts.

He wasn’t scared. Well. He wasn’t _just_ scared. He knew it was probably going to hurt. He hadn’t tried to penetrate himself since that second night with Gene, and even Gene’s fingering had pretty much been rubbing. If he couldn’t tolerate a finger inside him, a dick would be even worse. Paul was tempted to blame it on Carol, but if one less-sexy Playboy article was anything to go by, it was really just his nerves. He’d have no bulwark against them, either, no drugs or alcohol, when he slept with Gene. When he really slept with Gene.

That wasn’t his real problem, anyway. His real problem was the same as ever. Knowing it would all be over as soon as he let it happen.

He skimmed a hand over one newly-smooth thigh, fingers sliding across his wet skin. Up to his stomach, then his breasts, idly pushing them together. Considering. Wondering how it must’ve felt for Pinocchio once he got everything he ever wanted, once he was flesh instead of wood. Funny how that was Gene’s takeaway from that movie. Work hard, get your wish. Input-output. But he wasn’t going to get his wish here. Paul couldn’t be a real girl for him. No part of him ought to have ever wanted to try.

He’d just have to steel himself up for the end, that was all. Delaying it too long was only going to make it worse. It was—it was abysmal, not having taken care of it already, when he’d been so desperate to do it only the day before. But he couldn’t bring himself to commit just yet. Whether out of cowardice or longing, he didn’t know. He wanted to keep messing around with Gene as long as he could. Have Gene keep looking at him, keep touching him. Keep being with him. 

He swallowed thickly, stepped out of the shower, and dried his hair off a bit with a towel, pulling on a bathrobe before heading back out to the living room. Gene was still on that same couch,  _ Hawaii Five-O  _ playing in the background. Jack Lord was really starting to look craggy now.

“You wanna go to bed?”

“This early?” Gene looked a little amused, but Paul thought there might be something else there. Something on the border of disappointment.

“There’s nothing on T.V.”

“Did I play my cards right?”

“You didn’t play them wrong. We can fool around some more. I’ll keep my top off.”

It was a lousy offer for a guy who had girls chomping at the bit to sleep with him, and Paul knew it. But the grin he got in response was enough to make some of his guilt, some of his self-disgust, ease off, if only briefly.

“C’mon, I’ve got an idea.”

\--

Gene followed him to the bedroom affably, taking off his borrowed t-shirt and tossing it on the floor. He didn’t start on his pants, but Paul did for him, unzipping and tugging them down. Gene’s mouth crooked up, uncertain but pleased.

“You’ve got an awfully wide berth for fooling around, Paul.”

“I’ve got an awful lot of practice.” Paul untied his bathrobe but didn’t take it off yet. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing beneath it. His hair was still pretty wet, skin pink from the shower. The musky scent of him was almost gone, rinsed away by the shower and soaps, only readily apparent again when Gene’s hand moved between his thighs. It was kind of a thrill to find that earlier hadn’t been a fluke. Paul just kept getting wet for him easier than even a groupie.

Kissing down his neck as he kept stroking, getting a couple soft grunts in response, Gene wondered what Paul was up to. He was positioned a little awkwardly, legs spread wide, with Gene kneeling in the space between them. Paul kept shifting on the bed, posture a little stiff. Not like yesterday; he just seemed like he was deliberating, anticipating. Gene didn’t think Paul was comfortable enough to pull out any toys or handcuffs. Even light bondage seemed like a little much. Possibly—

“Did you want to 69?”

“Nah, I hate that shit. Give me your hand.”

“Paul, if you’re going to tie me up, I want a striptease first.”

Paul shrugged off the bathrobe and tossed it at him with a grin.

“I’m not gonna tie you up, Jesus. Just give me your hand.”

Impishly, Gene offered the right one, already soaked in Paul’s fluids. He was surprised when Paul took it, grabbing his wrist and pressing Gene’s palm into his cleavage, guiding it up and down. Gene felt a shiver run up his back, dick stiffening to full attention when Paul let go of his hand. The thin streaks of clear fluid left behind were their own promise, one that only got more definite as Paul lowered himself onto the bed, gesturing for Gene to come forward. He did, straddling him carefully, cock resting between his slightly-slick breasts. Paul squeezed them together experimentally, the brief pressure enough to make Gene twitch. Fuck. He hadn’t even fantasized about this one. Fucking Paul against the wall, eating him out--sure, sure. Paul letting him go for a titfuck had been way too far out of the realm of possibility for him to picture.

“It’s enough, right?” Paul’s voice was soft, vaguely pleased. Gene grunted an assent. They were definitely enough. Another squeeze, though Gene hadn’t tried to thrust yet, Paul watching for his reaction. “Figured we could put them to some use.”

“What’re you getting out of this?”

“The same thing you got out of me getting off on your leg. A good view.” Paul reached a hand up, stroking along Gene’s arm. “Now c’mon, I don’t wanna have to put K-Y on my tits.”


	24. like a spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Paul has a mild crisis of fear; Gene gets some air and thinks things over.

It was a pretty good time overall. Paul hadn’t expected to feel much—the groupies he’d done it with had definitely never gotten off during the act—but he did get twinges of warmth whenever Gene groped and pressed his breasts together himself, just enough for some squirming. It’d been oddly intriguing to watch Gene, intriguing and a little intimidating. Gene wasn’t really trying to bear down on him any more than he had to, but his physicality and heft hadn’t ever been more obvious than while Gene was straddling him, dick between his breasts. Paul wasn’t petite, either, even now, so he couldn’t quite picture what a real girl, someone little like Carol, must’ve thought while fucking around with him.

It hurt to consider someone else in his place. But someone else was going to be there. A whole bevy of interchangeable girls that Gene could get to do just anything at all, instead of someone too scared to even let him get in a proper lay yet.

He let Gene come across his cleavage and neck, undoing the point of the shower earlier, instead of sucking him off to finish. He started to get up after, to at least get a towel for himself, but Gene eased him back down by the shoulder, shaking his head.

“You stay. I’ll get you cleaned up.”

“My hero,” Paul quipped dryly, but his face felt warm. Gene got up and retrieved a damp washcloth from the bathroom. Gene wasn’t delicate about it, didn’t treat him like he was fragile, but he was thorough, careful. Surprisingly so, for a guy that was so remiss with his own personal hygiene. The rub of the cloth against his skin, more what it signified than how it felt, was enough to get Paul’s heart pumping, nipples stiffening up long before Gene teasingly traced a clean edge of the towel over them.

“Turn your head a little. You’ve got some of it in your hair.”

“That’s your bad aim.”

Gene laughed softly.

“Turn a little more.”

Paul hesitated, barely inching his head a bit further to the left. He knew instinctively that his hair was covering up his ear, that Gene wasn’t able to see anything from his angle, but it didn’t keep his tension at bay. If Gene noticed, he didn’t mention it, wiping the smear of semen out of his hair without a word. Just as kindly as he had wiped away the vomit last night. Paul felt so warm, so full. Undeserving of any of it. Gene leaned in, probably trying to make sure he’d gotten it all—but then their lips met instead. Paul couldn’t help himself, reaching out to grasp the sides of Gene’s face, urging him in closer. Within a few seconds, the washcloth ended up abandoned on the side of the bed, Gene going from leaning over him to pressed against him, their bodies flush. His skin was hot against Paul’s. Gene wasn’t hard again yet, but a little more time and teasing and it wouldn’t be long, not at all, it wouldn’t—

Paul was about to give in. Just on the verge of it. His legs felt like jelly, and he was wet again, almost embarrassingly so. It was only when Gene started to pull back that he remembered himself again.

“You ready?” Gene said.

“I…”

“You don’t have to be.”

“I’ve got to be sometime.” It felt like he was trying to convince himself, like the mumbled words of prayers he’d never memorized. “I know I’ve got to. I know we can’t keep on like this.”

Gene didn’t say anything for a few seconds. His brows were furrowed as he started to sit up. Paul grasped his arm.

“What do you want to do, Paul?”

Paul hesitated.

“I don’t know.” He watched Gene’s face carefully, expecting to watch it cloud with disappointment, and then he added, “Maybe we should stop for tonight.”

“Okay.”

No arguments at all. Gene didn’t try to coax him into anything else, shifting off of him and pulling back the covers to properly crawl into bed. He didn’t even ask for an explanation. Sickly, Paul wondered if Gene was relieved. Wondered if it was just confirmation of what he’d known all along. Gene wouldn’t want him after. Couldn’t possibly.

Part of him wanted Gene to push, or at least look disappointed. Part of him wanted to take it back, contrary as that seemed. But take it back to what, another round of oral? Gene would have to get tired of that at some point, if he wasn’t already. It wasn’t good enough. It just wasn’t good enough.

“Are you okay?” Gene again, quiet. “Look, if you want to talk—”

“I’m fine. My back hurts.” Abruptly, Paul realized that sounded almost as textbook as the old _I-have-a-headache_ that he’d assumed was the rallying cry of housewives everywhere. “Lemme go take something for it. Maybe watch some T.V. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Okay.” Gene pulled back the covers on Paul’s side as soon as Paul got up. Paul could feel his eyes on him as he shrugged on the bathrobe from earlier and started out the bedroom door. “I’ll be here.”

\--

Lousy as it sounded, his back really did hurt. It had been hurting all day. He wasn’t sure why, but he suspected it had more to do with spending over a week now with tits than anything else. He wouldn’t let himself really consider the other possibility, the one involving the box of Kotex still at the bottom of that paper grocery bag in the kitchen. The one he pushed to the side as he dug through his medicine cabinet, coming up with a few bottles of uppers, Tums, and Pepto-Bismol before finding some Tylenol. He swallowed down two with half a glass of water, and then he sat down at the kitchen island, tying and retying the sash of his bathrobe. Fiddling with the bow, making it perfectly even, then uneven. Tying it in a hard knot just so he could waste time and nerves untangling it. It wasn’t helping. Just a distraction.

He’d known he couldn’t be a real girl for him. But he’d wanted to try. He’d wanted to keep that interest going as long as he could. He didn’t want to be in this body forever, but he didn’t despise it any more deeply than he despised how he really was. Another couple of days wouldn’t damage his psyche any. Maybe just the sheer fact that it wouldn’t hurt him was another testament to how little really defined him as a person.

Except Gene had kept him, ultimately, from facing much of what actually living as a chick was really like. And the tour was an inevitability to be dealt with. Bill and Sean would start making police inquiries if his own parents didn’t. Every day would force his hand a little further, and provide for more disastrous fallout once he finally decided to go through with it.

He tried to tick off all the things he’d give up if he kept putting it off. If, even worse, he opted to just try to stay this way for as long as he could. There was the roar of the crowd, the only thing in his whole life that had ever made him feel like he might be okay, besides Gene. There was his money, his car, his lifestyle. His family. He couldn’t—he couldn’t turn his back on all that for something as stupid as wanting to hold on to Gene for just a little bit longer.

He left the kitchen after a minute or two more and slunk down the stairs as quietly as possible. His overblown record collection greeted him again, though the whole effort looked foolish now, without Gene to show them to. His gold records on the wall. The People’s Choice award for “Beth.” He read over each inscription like it was the first time, trying to engrave it all into his brain— _there, that’s what you’re giving up. That’s what you’re making everyone else give up, too, every day you put this off._ People who had nothing at all to do with it. Ace and Peter. Bill and Sean. Dozens of roadies. Even the girls that helped run the KISS publicity machine. Out of a livelihood if Paul decided Gene’s attention was more important than the band. Because Paul didn’t believe Gene would ever want him like he really was.

He yanked an album off the shelf almost blindly. _More of the Monkees_. Christ. He put it on the turntable anyway. He’d been way too old to enjoy the show when it had come on, too old and too enamored by the Beatles to be interested in an American rip-off, but the songs had been a guilty pleasure. Another influence he couldn’t point to. Gene could talk about Pinocchio without losing any confidence at all. Paul always had to play pretend with everything. Everything. Had to hide behind Starchild just to get onstage. Had to hide behind Gene just to find out how to break the curse. Worth nothing on his own merits. Sense of self all shot to hell. Moldable. Desperate.

He wanted, not for the first time, to talk to Dr. Hilsen. As if Hilsen would even believe him, and as if Hilsen would really guide him if he did. He’d think Paul had finally cracked up just like Julia had. It had just taken him longer. Two spoiled rotten, fucked-up kids with no right to be fucked-up at all. No right and every right. The same thing was wrong with both of them in the end.

His breaths hitched like he’d been running a marathon. There was a pain somewhere new and untraceable in his gut.

He snuck back upstairs before he’d gotten more than halfway through the B-side of the record. Gene was still there, and just awake enough to shift a little when Paul slipped back into bed. But Gene was facing the other side, covers swaddled around him, and Paul didn’t feel like trying to worm his way back into his arms.

He lay there instead, watching the alarm clock on the nightstand, the tick not nearly enough to drown out the slight sound of Gene’s breaths, or the blood dully pounding in his ear for hours as he finally fell asleep.

\--

Gene got up early the next morning. He checked on Paul, who was still shifting and wriggling in his sleep next to him. The dull morning light barely played off his face, a face that was, honestly, more similar to the one in the photos than it was different. He didn’t have that peaceful look to him right now. His hand wasn’t between his legs this time, either.

Gene pulled on the jeans he’d borrowed the day before, and then, thinking better of it, took them off and put on a pair of Paul’s sweatpants instead. Bummy enough that he’d never be recognized when he went out. He borrowed another of Paul’s shirts—this one was an old flowery one he remembered Paul wearing while KISS was still just Wicked Lester. Then he retrieved the paper from the front porch, read a few of the sections, and then just stuck them on his side of the bed.

He needed to clear his head. He needed to make a decision. Ultimately, it was up to Paul, but he had a part in it, too. Paul’s words in the rowboat kept rattling in his brain. They hadn’t been the tease he’d probably meant them as. More of a plea.

_Do I have your heart yet?_

Paul hadn’t had the guts to wait on an answer. Gene hadn’t had the guts to give him one.

Did he have _Paul’s_ heart? That wasn’t even a question. Mary-Anne at CBGB, who’d rescued a rockstar without even knowing it, had answered it for him. _She’s yours. Yours._ Gene had never thought of Paul as belonging to anyone. He wasn’t even comfortable enough to belong to himself. And yet—

_I want to belong somewhere._

_I wanna be with you._

He scribbled a note.

“Paul—went to pick up food for us & clothes from home.”

He skipped a couple lines, staring at them, wondering if he needed to add something dirty or witty, and in the end he settled for neither.

“Be back soon. Gene”

It didn’t quite seem sufficient. Paul had been oversleeping almost every morning; he might not even wake up until after Gene returned. But this whole time, Gene hadn’t gone anywhere without him. He considered it some more, and then stuck another few sentences in the lines he’d left blank:

“I wanted to buy you some real groceries.”

 _You’re always eating sandwiches when you’re at home by yourself_ , he wanted to write next. _You’re still doing that. You worry too much._ But all that sounded so weirdly doting that he dismissed it before his pen met the paper again.

“Will try to bring you back some matzo ball soup, too. but only if it’s good. Jewish delis aren’t like they used to be.”

That accomplished, he set the note on the bedside table, covering up the alarm clock. Paul’s bathrobe was on the floor, and he picked it up and, in an odd moment, started to put it in the hamper. Peeking out from inside the basket were most of their clothes from the last few days. Paul’s random array of t-shirts and boxers, the jeans he’d bought, the shorts from that first night at CBGB.

There was a napkin in the pocket of the shorts. He tugged it out just from pure curiosity, but he only found where Mary-Anne had scribbled Carol’s old address. Their first dead-end. Gene shook his head, sticking the napkin in his own pocket, not sure why. The napkin seemed to burn there, bothering him even twenty minutes later when his driver pulled in and gave him the old, tired where-to.

“Well…”

Gene’s first instinct was to tell him to drive to the nearest grocery store. His second was the nearest Jewish deli. But something weird and strange made him push the napkin into the driver’s hand instead.

“You want to go there?” The driver cocked his head. “I know where those apartments are. That’s a crappy part of town—it’s all fucking crappy these days, but man—”

“I’ve lived in worse.” Gene exhaled. “Take me over there.”

He nodded, apparently opting not to argue further. A few minutes stretched out along the highway before the driver spoke again.

“Where’s the girl?”

“Paul.”

“Figures.” A snort, and then he adjusted his mirror. “He always gets the pretty ones.”


	25. to a fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Gene makes a housecall; Paul gets some advice from Ace over the phone.

It wasn’t a long ride over to that dingy apartment complex.

Gene didn’t know what he was expecting. The place didn’t look any better in the daylight, and when he got out of the car, he saw his driver reach over his seat and start locking all the car doors. He stepped inside alone, walking the craggy flights of steps up to her old apartment number, knocking on the door in what he knew had to be a useless endeavor.

He was a little hopeful when a different girl answered. A pretty thing, really, with curly black hair and sad eyes. A really pretty thing, he could tell that even from the scant few inches she opened the door.

“Yes?”

“Hey.” Gene paused. “I was here a few nights ago. I was wondering if you had a forwarding address for someone who used to live here, Carol—"

“Carol left a couple weeks ago.”

“I know. I’m just trying to find where she went after that.”

“She didn’t pay her share of the rent.” The girl looked Gene up and down, from the baggy sweatpants to the old floral shirt. “We had to kick her out.”

“I know, I—”

“Did something bad happen? Are you with the police or something?”

“I’m not with the police.” Gene tried to think. If the roommates had kicked her out, then that meant she hadn’t been on the lease, right? The apartment manager would’ve had to have her forwarding address if she had been. Wasn’t that how it worked? “She got into some trouble with a rockstar.”

“Trouble?” The girl repeated, with more innocence than Gene could readily believe, at first. “She kept trying to hex one. Kathy got pissed when she spilled some offering on the carpet…”

“Yeah, trouble.” Gene tried to infuse the word with its usual meaning. Babies and under the table payoffs. He couldn’t tell if she took the bait or not. “Can you help me?”

“Her mom lives in Virginia,” she offered. “She’s not from there, though, I think she’s from… I don’t know, Minnesota or Michigan… somewhere that starts with an M…”

That was barely better than no help at all. He tried to pay attention as the girl kept trailing off.

“Her mom’s got scads of money from her dad dying. She helps her out a lot. Carol said if we’d just give her a couple more days, then she’d be good for the next three months. Swore it. Kathy and Bunny wouldn’t have it, though, ’cause between the rent and the occult stuff, she was too wild for us, and—”

“Do you have her mother’s address?”

“No. Well…” She pursed her lips, thinking, and then held a finger up. “Let me look around, maybe there’s an envelope…”

And she scurried back from the door, still leaving it open those few inches as she rummaged around, the door chain keeping him from seeing much of the place at all. He waited, listening to her scuffle across the apartment, rustling through papers, until finally that dark cloud of hair peeked back into existence at the door.

“No. I’m sorry. Oh, but she used to go to discos! You might wanna check CBGB, or the Ice Pa—”

“I’ve done it already,” Gene said, and walked away.

\--

No good. It had been stupid to hope for any new insight. If he really wanted to push it, there was the possibility of finding Carol at 54 again tonight, but Gene doubted she’d be there, and he doubted Paul would want to go there again. He wouldn’t leave Paul at home by himself for a venture like that, either.

Gene had his driver take him to the nearest supermarket immediately after. The driver had weakly offered to take him to a better part of town, but Gene hadn’t cared enough to go those few extra miles for a little more security.

He’d never really gotten his own groceries. When he was off tour, at home, he ate out more often than not, or he went to his mother’s. She always had a smorgasbord at the ready. Always cooking. Gene remembered that early on during tours, when money was tight, Paul and Peter would take it upon themselves to make dinners for the band—they weren’t great—but at least they actually knew what to get and how to fix it. Gene was pushing his shopping cart through the aisles, looking at rows of dried and canned goods and feeling mildly stumped by the whole affair. He’d never paid much attention to how his mother cooked anything, just the end result, so any comfort food from when he’d grown up was out. But maybe…

He settled on a few bottles of Tab, since Peter and Ace had gotten into Paul’s supply of them prior, and then some spaghetti noodles and canned tomatoes. That seemed depressing, so he doubled back to retrieve some fresh tomatoes, mushrooms, and onions as well. Maybe it wouldn’t be that great of a follow-up to matzo ball soup, if he ended up getting it, but it was definitely an improvement to eating peanut-butter sandwiches for dinner. Then he got a box of vanilla wafers, a package of chocolate-chip cookies, and a bunch of bananas.

Gene was nearing the check-out lanes when he felt someone’s eyes on him. He stiffened and stopped, opting not to turn around—it was probably some kid who’d recognized him. Funny how, as long as he’d been with Paul, he hadn’t gotten spotted for who he was once, except on purpose. He pretended to focus all his attention on the label on a bottle of honey, picking it up and inspecting it, waiting for the passerby to either come closer or move on ahead. In a few seconds, he had it—a girl actually scurrying past. A small girl, only carrying a shopping basket and a purse. If he hadn’t caught a glimpse of her pale, freckled face, he wouldn’t have realized who she was.

Absolutely unbelievable. He had to have expended all his luck over the next three years. Quickly, he pushed his cart to the side and tapped her shoulder before she could make it to the check-out line. She turned around, staring at him, eyes wide and stunned. She tried to take a step back, stopping short of even that movement.

“Good morning, Carol.”

\--

Paul woke up abruptly. The day’s newspaper was on Gene’s side of the bed, the sections separated and askew. He didn’t bother pushing them aside, just reached over to check the clock on the nightstand, finding the note Gene left behind. He reread it once, twice, trying to ignore the paranoid, curdling sensation in his gut, the idea that Gene might have just gotten tired of him and tried to find a quick exit, at least for awhile. He wouldn’t have blamed him, not after last night. Not after four nights and five days of putting up with him.

But Gene was bringing him back food. No, more than that, he was bringing him back matzo ball soup and probably a deli sandwich, and whatever Gene thought constituted real groceries. If he was really leaving, he wouldn’t have bothered to specify. Gene must’ve assumed Paul would sleep late enough to start the day with lunch, and, looking at the clock, he hadn’t been too far off. It was fifteen until eleven.

He sighed, stretching out a bit before getting up and pulling on some clothes. All he had left was the dress he’d bought, the one he’d decided wasn’t nice enough for Studio 54. Just a cream and gold colored sundress. Softer colors than he’d usually have opted for. He picked absently at the thin straps. He never felt more fake than when he was alone, even before all this happened.

The phone rang before he could decide what else to do, whether to wait on Gene or eat something or waste awhile in front of the T.V. It startled him a little. Ever since Gene had come, he’d rarely been in the house enough to hear it ring. Another cushion from reality.

He ignored it. It kept ringing. Six times. Seven. Eventually, the answering machine tape started up, and he heard his own, actual voice, another piece of bewilderment.

“Hey, this is Paul Stanley. If you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Thanks.”

“Paul, this is Ace, I—”

Paul grabbed the phone, sudden relief flooding into him.

“Ace?”

“Who’s this?” A pause, and then. “Paul?”

Paul leaned over the answering machine, gingerly unplugging it to keep the tape from running while he spoke.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”

“Sorry I’m late calling. Gene got you back home the other night?”

“Yeah.”

“Still not normal yet.” Ace sighed. “What’s she want out of you? You never told me.”

“Nothing I can’t do.”

“Virgin sacrifice?”

Paul froze up for a second, the phone feeling like a rock in his hand. No way had Gene told the guys. No way. It was a moment or two before he could force a small laugh.

“You’re not too far off.”

“Shit, do you have to kill someone? Keep the tits, it’s not worth—”

“No! I—forget it, man. I don’t have to hurt anybody. I can do it.”

He expected Ace to push for a better answer than that, but he didn’t. God. Ace knew the fate of the whole band sat right on Paul’s shoulders, and yet he didn’t want to ask for a better explanation. Maybe he didn’t give a fuck. Maybe he wanted to go out on his own. Maybe him and Peter were just chomping at the bit to splinter off from the group. Why shouldn’t they? Paul was ruining everything for them just as readily as he was ruining everything for Gene. Paul took a deep breath, tried to convince himself he wasn’t being rational, but the impressions were still wobbling in his brain even when Ace started to talk again.

“Peter was gonna check on you, but he’s still kinda…” Ace trailed. “So I told him not to worry about it. You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You really okay?”

“Yeah, Ace.”

“Nobody screwed around with you?”

“Ace, if you want a play-by-play of two nights ago, I’m sure you—”

“Okay, okay. Just making sure. Pete’s real worried about you.”

“’M okay.”

“He lit into Gene for letting you go off.”

“He shouldn’t have. It was fine.” God. Gene had told him. Or Peter had called the house. One or the other. Paul swallowed. Something about it hurt, almost made his eyes burn. Weird, how that was. Weird how knowing all the guys really did give a shit about him would be enough to nearly induce tears. Maybe he was just that stressed and worn out. He could almost picture Ace’s mild, affable, probably-hungover look, and that helped him blink back anything incriminating.

“Oh, and you got in the paper, too.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Not front page, but you’re in the entertainment section—”

Paul scrambled for the newspaper, flipping through the sections. He nearly didn’t recognize his own picture—funny, when he’d been staring at that face for over a week now—but there he was, arm and arm with Gene in a corner photo. Gene’s face was still covered, and Paul was leaning in heavily against him, mouth parted in a strained attempt at a smile. Two days ago. Two days ago and the firmness and warmth of Gene’s hold, the smell of his sweat, all of that had only gotten all the more familiar. All the more something he needed instead of just longed for. Something secure. Something meaningful.

“Gene got his picture after all.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. ‘Tongue-waggling KISS bassist Gene Simmons cozies up to a Miss Isen at Studio 54,’” Paul read dryly. “They misspelled my name.”

“You look sweet.”

“I look awful.”

“Give yourself some credit. You make a hot chick.” Ace laughed. Not maliciously. Paul didn’t think the guy was really capable of being malicious. He hesitated, running his free hand down his knee, smoothing the material of the dress, before responding.

“Can I ask you something, Ace?”

“Sure, Paulie.”

“It’s a… it’s a thought experiment.”

“Don’t get all pretentious and shit. I know you dropped out of college.”

Paul had never been more grateful that he couldn’t see Ace on the other end of the line. He’d have given himself away already otherwise. He swallowed thickly.

“Ace—this is all just—hypothetical. Let’s say… let’s say you got told you could have what you wanted.”

“Then I’d wait on the catch.”

Paul could feel his mouth twitch up into an unwilling, dry smile.

“The catch is, you could only get it once, and that was it. Just once. Would you still take it?”

Ace didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’d rather have something once than never have it.”

“I’m not like that. If I couldn’t—if I couldn’t keep having something, I’d never—”

“All or nothing, right, Paul?” Paul could hear Ace rustling something on the other end of the line. Papers, maybe. “You can’t go through life like that, you’ll never be satisfied. You gotta compromise.”

“You compromise everything.”

“’M happier for it.”

“You can’t be. Compromising… it’s just giving up, isn’t it?”

“No. Paulie—” Ace made a short, weird sound, almost like he was sucking the spit off his teeth. “You always think you’re figuring on the long term, and you’re not.”

“I am—”

“You’re not. Hear me out, man. You think there’s any guarantees anywhere? Look at the band—”

“This isn’t about the band—”

“’S just an example. We got our big hit. Now what if—what if that’s the best we ever do? Whether you get your dick back or not, what if that’s as good as it ever gets?”

“That… that can’t happen.” It felt like something was stuck in his throat. This wasn’t how he’d expected this to go, not at all. “We just got really big, it can’t be over that quick. There’s no way. Ace, we…”

“What if it is, Paul? What would you say?” Ace’s words sped up in a still-lazy rattle. “What if we go bust a year from now?”

“Don’t talk like that, man.”

“You need to hear it. This ain’t gonna last any way you slice it, don’t kid yourself.” Paul’s stomach churned as he heard the click of a pop top on the other end of the line, and Ace taking a swig and a swallow. “We’ll wear out our welcome. Maybe we already have. Nobody lasts in music.”

“Elvis—”

“Elvis is a joke, Paulie.” Another long gulp. “And if you get past his age, what else d’you got? You got—you got Bing Crosby dragging his own corpse out there every fucking year for his Christmas special. Been wailing out ‘White Christmas’ since World War II. If we’re still playing ‘Cold Gin’ when we’re forty-five, I hope to God someone takes us out back and shoots us.”

Paul chewed his lip. He felt grimmer now than when he’d picked up the phone, almost distracted out of what he’d really been trying to ask of Ace. Ace, who kept up with weird shit like space shuttles and went on drunken rambles about the aliens who’d made him small. Ace, who he’d assumed was just along for the ride on everything. Paul felt an odd curdling in his gut, something like shame for assuming he and Gene were the only ones who ever thought ahead. For writing off Ace and Peter like their myriad addictions made them stupid.

“Shit, Ace, you’re usually a little more positive—”

“’M just trying to make a point here.” Ace blew out a breath loud enough that Paul could hear it over the phone. “If this is as good as it gets, would you say you don’t want it? Would you say you wanted to turn it all back around? Me and you driving cabs? Gene teaching school again? Pete—”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re gonna do better than that, that’s why! I-I’ll write whatever crossover songs I’ve got to, we’ll keep on touring, and—”

“But you don’t know that.”

“I do know that!”

“Nah, Paulie. You don’t know that.” Ace let out an odd sound, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re just betting on it. Ought to bet on something a little more certain.”

“Like what?”

“Like Geno getting over you not having tits.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s got nothing to do with—did he—shit, what did he tell you?”

“Jesus, your voice gets real squeaky. Did it always do that?” Ace said it so mildly, as always. Ace couldn’t even bitch properly when Paul had his whole career dangling on the line. “I haven’t talked to him since we came over.”

“Then—”

“You’re like a glass of water, Paulie, you ain’t fooling anyone. Listen, do what you’ve gotta do. But don’t do it based on anybody but yourself.”

“I’ll call you back later, Ace.”

“Okay, girlie.”

Paul hung up before Ace managed a goodbye on the other end. His heart was thudding harder than ever.


	26. jump right ahead

“What do you want?”

Carol’s eyes were big and scared. Not defiant at all. Her back was up against the jars of peanut butter on the grocery shelf. Gene looked at her, that pockmarked, freckled face, and tried to decide what Paul had seen there, those times they’d slept together. Then he realized, dumbly, that Paul hadn’t even really remembered. Carol had only become important when she’d hurt him.

“I think you’re pretty well aware.”

“I don’t want to talk to—”

“You’re going to talk to me.” At the edge of his vision, he caught a glimpse of a mother pushing a cart, taking her little girl by the hand and tugging her away. She probably thought they were about to cause a scene. He swallowed, stepping forward and grasping Carol’s shoulder, abandoning the cart entirely. She didn’t struggle or argue, only put down her shopping basket. “Come on, we won’t do it here.”

He thought, briefly, about taking her to his car to discuss it, just for privacy. He realized after a moment that would probably only terrify her further, so he settled for heading to an empty bench in front of the store. She sat down beside him on the bench, but her eyes kept darting towards the parking lot as if she were about to bolt.

“Do you do this a lot?”

That was the first thing she’d said in awhile. The snippy bitterness, the way it barely masked her fear, was strangely reminiscent. Of who, he wasn’t quite sure.

“Pick girls up in grocery stores? No. Usually they just follow me wherever I go. It’s a little like the Pied Piper.”

She stiffened, hands clasped in her lap, but didn’t respond.

“I’m not going to hurt you. But you need to take that curse off him.” He shifted, digging in the pocket of his borrowed sweatpants as he spoke, pulling out his wallet, and then digging further, for his checkbook. “I’ll… listen, I’ll…”

He trailed. He hadn’t thought this through nearly as well as he’d hoped. The plan, as much as there’d been a plan, had been to try and get an address off of the roommates, and go from there. He hadn’t anticipated being confronted with her so quickly. The money issue—that was another thing. Spending on Paul directly hadn’t been something that he’d minded a bit, for all the notations in his checkbook and all the credit card charges over the past several days. But on this girl, on Carol, he wasn’t sure what amount to offer. Too little and she’d laugh in his face. Too much and—but Paul was worth it. If he could just guarantee that she wouldn’t take the money and run—

Carol flinched. Her teeth sunk into her lip, and she shook her head.

“I don’t want it.”

“That’s bullshit. You got thrown out of your old place. And if this is where you buy groceries, wherever you’re living now isn’t any better.”

“How did you—”

“I talked to your old roommate.” Something occurred to him suddenly. “She said you were expecting money when they kicked you out, too. Enough to pay the rent for three months. Where did you think that much money was coming from? Your mom? Or Paul?”

Her breath hitched sharply. Her face had gone from ashen to waxy, the freckles standing out far too sharply against her skin.

“No! I didn’t think it would work! I told him that!” He hadn’t moved towards her at all, but she was scooting up to the very edge of the bench. “I don’t want your money. I already told him how to get rid of it! He doesn’t need to be siccing _you_ on me!”

“You really think Paul’s got me on retainer? Oh, come on.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Carol’s mouth twitched like she was about to laugh, the rest of her expression still as scared as ever. “H-he didn’t like what I told him. So he had you come and bother me instead. Right?”

“Paul doesn’t have me do anything. I came on my own.”

“He’s no good. He’s using you.” She unclasped her hands, one hand gripping the armrest instead. “Can’t you understand that?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He’s just had you handle everything for him. You think I couldn’t see that?” A sharp inhale. “He used you to get to me all the way around.”

It was bait he wouldn’t even dignify with a response. He’d taken care of Paul. Of course he had. Longer than the past few days, if Paul’s claims were to be believed. But Gene hadn’t been used by him. Not ever.

“Are you really ruining a man’s life just because he only wanted to fuck you twice?”

Carol flinched.

“I summoned Marbas, he’s the one who…” she started to trail, cutting herself off abruptly. “L-look, I told Paul what to do already. He has to sleep with somebody. Didn’t it work? Or did Marbas try and—”

“He hasn’t done it.”

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t want to,” Gene snapped. Carol gave him a look that seemed like a cross between bewildered and disgusted.

“Why should he care?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know. He said you had a tour coming up. So why would he hold off?” She snorted. “What stopped him?”

“That’s not rel—”

“What’s he afraid of?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.” Carol seemed coiled up, like she was trying to make herself even smaller than she was, all crammed against the edge of the bench and the armrest. Like she could only manage to say anything at all if she was prepared to flee. “He’s scared of getting fucked.”

“That’s not—”

“What are you defending him for?”

“Paul’s my friend.”

“He’s not. H-he’d step on anybody to get his way.”

“Why, because you feel like he stepped on you?”

Carol stiffened, shaking her head.

“I saw the way he was with you at 54. I bet he’s been making out with you this whole time, just so you’d do what he wanted.”

“Is that how you think it is?”

“Do you think if you do everything right, he’ll change his mind and let you?”

Maybe some part of him had thought that once. The idea of getting in Paul’s pants had been there almost from the start. Something to do. Something to fantasize about and then maybe fall into while trying to get the curse broken. Something that maybe wouldn’t have meant too much. He hadn’t been completely selfless. But now—now, it wasn’t like that. Paul wasn’t just another girl he hadn’t fucked yet, he was—

He was—

Carol stared at him with something almost like pity.

“He’ll give it up eventually. He won’t stay like this forever.”

“I know.”

“What are you going to do after that?”

“We’ll get back on the road.” He shifted slightly, hand finding his own knee. “We start the new tour in July.”

“No. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

She was silent for a long time.

“I thought I was only gonna hurt him with this,” she said. “Teach him a lesson.”

“Carol, he’s learned his lesson. He was talking about you yesterday.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He said he used to think all the girls knew what was going on, until he met you. He said he… he said we had some responsibility, for them thinking they had a real chance.”

“Y-you’re just trying to make me feel like he’s really changed—”

“No, I’m not. I swear, he said that. He said he didn’t mean to hurt them, but he did. I don’t know if that’s worth anything to you at all. But it should be.”

She shook her head, but her expression didn’t match the movement. Her eyes were a little glassy, lips twitching. The hand that had been gripping the armrest drifted to her thigh, rubbing nervously up and down her jeans.

“What else did he say?”

“He… said if he didn’t want to be treated like something to collect, then maybe the girls didn’t, either.”

“He said that?”

“Yeah. He said that.”

“He really…” she trailed, voice throaty. She shook her head again and stood up from the bench. She was too close to crying for him to want to reach out and grab her at first. Something about her seemed so fragile, so desperate. After all she’d done, despite all she’d done, a little acknowledgement and she was almost in tears. “Maybe I didn’t do so bad. I-I’ve got to go.”

“Carol, don’t go. Come on—come on, we’ll talk about this some more—”

“Paul’ll take care of it. I know he will. I’m sorry, Gene.”

“Sorry?”

“Because you love him, too.”

\--

Eleven-thirty.

Paul peeled off his underwear, kicking it to the floor. He lay down on his stomach on Gene’s side of the bed, bunching up his dress until the hem was above his hips before slipping his hand between his thighs.

Slow strokes. As a guy, he’d been able to get off without a fantasy in mind, if he was relaxed enough. Masturbation had a sort of mechanical aspect to it. Now, it just—it felt more difficult, whether it was or not. The pleasure wasn’t as immediate or obvious. He shut his eyes, nose pressed hard against the pillow, finding the traces of Gene’s scent there without meaning to.

_C’mon. C’mon._ His fingers rubbed against his folds, not wet yet, but at least warm. His imagination had always been so lousy, so literal. Getting with Gene had been so far outside the realm of possibility that he’d never jacked off over him before. Summoning his image up now was almost intimidating, close as it was, for all it added a rhythm to his strokes. Picturing Gene’s hand there instead, Gene’s body against his, warm and heavy, enveloping him. Paul turned his head just to get a little more air. His thighs tensed, unconsciously clamping around his hand.

After a few minutes, only managing to get a little slick, he stopped rubbing his hand against his pussy and just cupped it instead, shoving his hips against the edge of his hand. It felt better, but it also felt more feminine, which was something he hadn’t given a fuck about when he’d gotten off on Gene’s leg, but it bothered him a bit while going at it alone. He’d get brief spikes of pleasure, but nothing sustained, and nothing like before. He was barely even panting.

He opened his eyes after awhile, catching a glimpse at the clock again. Eleven fifty. Twenty minutes of getting warm and getting wet without managing an orgasm.

Paul wasn’t exactly trying to get off, anyway, but it was a bonus that didn’t seem to be in sight. Slowly, warily, he slid a finger across his slit. No tenderness to speak of, though, granted, he didn’t so much as ghost his fingertip over his clit. Then a bit deeper, pushing his index finger inside himself, just barely to the first knuckle. No pain this time, just an uncomfortable feeling. He pushed further, crooking his finger, trying not to tense up, trying to explore. Unconsciously, his hips wriggled, that uncomfortable feeling just getting worse the deeper he tried to get, body just tightening up hard around his finger, until he finally had to stop.

He couldn’t do it. Fuck, he still couldn’t do it.

Paul kept on trying for another ten minutes, honestly past when he started to get sore. He contemplated using lube on himself in order to keep up the effort a bit longer, deciding against it. Maybe he was stupid to keep on like that, as if a finger was really comparable to a dick, but he didn’t know what else to do. How else to try and gear himself up. He didn’t want to go into this only to have to back out because it hurt too much. Then there was the even more dire possibility that Gene might not even manage to penetrate him properly in the first place if he were too tensed up—well, it _seemed_ unlikely, nothing like that had ever happened with a chick he’d slept with before, but… but he really didn’t know.

Maybe he wasn’t going to know until it happened. Maybe he was wasting his time.

He got up from the bed, tugging his underwear back on and washing his hands. He redid his nail polish, and spent awhile fretting in front of the mirror, even though he knew, or figured, that Gene wasn’t half so particular about how he looked right now. He combed and attempted to tease his sleep-matted hair, washed his face, considered makeup. His stomach was starting to growl, but he ignored it. Gene would be back soon. Paul would be ready for him when he came. He could guarantee himself that much. No more delays. Ace’s advice spun in his head over and over. He was following it. He wasn’t basing this off anyone but himself. He’d do what he needed to do.

Funny how he wasn’t as afraid anymore, despite how unsuccessful his masturbation attempts were. Making the decision was its own relief, regardless of how everything turned out with him and Gene afterwards. If Gene got over Paul once he was back to normal, he’d… he’d manage all right. He would. The main thing worrying him right now was Gene still not being back from his myriad trips.

Twelve-thirty. He flipped on the T.V., keeping the volume low enough that he could still hear the phone, in case Gene called him up. Just the act sent a stab of nostalgia through his guts. He used to do that in high school, come home and immediately turn the T.V. on as a cover, when what he was really waiting on was Gene’s phone call. It didn’t always come. Gene had an actual social life and actual friends and even a slightly revolving door of girlfriends. But he’d wait anyway, and maybe twice a week, the phone would ring—“hey, Stan, I got the new Zeppelin album” or “Stan, I heard one of the frats on campus is having a party tonight—free food if you want it, just don’t get wasted.” And Paul would go out and meet him, or Gene would come over, and there for awhile, a void would be filled.

Twelve-fifty-five. He got up from the couch before the program was even over, pulling the saltines and peanut butter from the pantry, eating his way through about a third of one plastic sleeve of saltines. He despised his own paranoia, trying to remind himself that he hadn’t even been awake until noon yesterday, remind himself that he didn’t even know what time Gene had left, either.

Gene had to be back soon. Just had to be.

\--

Gene didn’t even bother going back into the store to get the groceries, even though his driver offered, and even though Carol hadn’t gone back in herself. He’d watched her tiny figure shuffle down past the parking lot to the sidewalk and disappear, her last words to him ringing like a dull, brassy bell in his head.

Once she was out of sight, he had his driver head to the nearest Jewish deli, ordering a couple bucks’ worth of sandwiches, not even vying for a sample of the matzo ball soup before ordering it. He stood in the deli, his driver at his side as the guy behind the counter prepared the sandwiches, and tried to remember what else he needed to do.

“What time is it?”

“One,” the driver said.

“That late?”

“Do you want me to take you back to Paul’s?”

Gene hesitated.

“I was going to pick up some more clothes from home first.”

“Is Paul even at home?”

“He’s been there the entire time.”

“I’ve only seen that chickie.” His driver shook his head. “I didn’t think Paul was that generous with his pad. You bringing him back the food, too?”

“I was planning on it.”

“Those sandwiches are gonna get soggy if we have to stop by your place first.”

“I think you’re just trying to get out of driving.” One o’clock. Paul was probably up by now. Part of Gene wanted to keep delaying coming back, but he relented. “All right, Paul’s is fine. I’ll pick up my stuff later.”

There might not even be need for a later. Carol had been wrong about Paul in a lot of ways, but not when it came to the curse. He wasn’t going to let himself live this way forever. He had to value himself enough for that.

Gene just—he’d wanted to fix things for him. To make things right. Really right, without any expectations in return. Without any hand of his own in breaking the curse, Paul wouldn’t have had to suffer anymore. He’d be free.

The drive back to Paul’s was a little hectic, the lunch traffic in full swing. The filthy streets and buildings he’d had the luxury of avoiding over the last few years had been staring him right in the face since Paul had gotten cursed. It made him feel a little sick. Sick for being able to ignore it, and sick for half-forgetting he’d come up from no better than Carol’s lousy apartment. Even if Carol herself might’ve come from wealthier stock, at some point, she was in the gutter now. Stuck shopping at some rundown grocery store during the day while trying to grab onto some coattails at 54 every night. It was shitty, whether she’d caused her own problems or not.

The traffic didn’t give Gene enough time to really iron his thoughts out. Before he knew it, he was at Paul’s front porch again, with just a single bag of deli food in tow. Paul answered the front door almost immediately. He had his hair fluffed up and teased again, and he was barefoot, wearing the sundress he’d bought a few days ago.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Paul flashed a wan smile. “Did something happen?”

“I left late, ran into a bunch of traffic. I got your soup and sandwiches.” Gene raised the bag. “I wasn’t sure what kind you liked the best, so I bought a couple—”

Paul eyed Gene from head to toe, surveying the flower-print and sweatpants combination with an almost disturbed look, nose wrinkling.

“You look like crap.”

“Well, I didn’t want to get recognized.”

“You said you were gonna bring back some clothes.” Paul didn’t say it irritably, but there was a slight, nervous edge to the words that bothered Gene all the same. “I mean, if you dig my wardrobe, you dig my wardrobe, but you’ve gotta add a little taste—”

“I’ll just get a box of clothes sent over again. We can go get the groceries later. I didn’t really know what to buy, anyway.”

“Gene, you really don’t have to.”

“I will.”

“No, I meant—”

“I’m starving, aren’t you? Let’s eat.”

Paul didn’t look particularly convinced, but he headed to the kitchen with Gene. He’d already set the table. He’d even added bowls for the soup.

“Tab or water?”

“Water.”

Paul poured him a glass and got a can of Tab for himself. He reheated the soup in his microwave oven, split it between the bowls, and unwrapped one of the pastrami sandwiches Gene had brought, setting it on his own plate. Mechanically, Gene got a sandwich out of the bag for himself, not even checking the type before unwrapping it and putting it in his mouth. The tenseness seemed to make the air thick. Heavy. Paul cleared his throat.

“I used to work in a deli.”

“I remember.”

“Deli in the mornings, cabbie in the afternoons and evenings, band practice late at night.” Paul shifted in his seat. “Ace drove cabs, too, and Pete—”

“Pete drummed for that restaurant.”

“Yeah. And you taught school. You were the only one working full-time.”

“Hey, you’re kind of young to be getting nostalgic over that, don’t you think?” Gene tried to joke, eating another bite of his sandwich. The bread seemed to stick somewhere at the back of his throat, flavorless and chalky. “It wasn’t so long ago.”

“I know, I was just thinking.” Paul took a swallow of his drink. “You always had a back-up plan. Nobody else did.”

Oh. Gene chewed quickly, barely remembering to wipe his mouth, shaking his head. Maybe he was reading too far into the comment. But he doubted it.

“Paul, I’m not thinking up a back-up plan right now. That’s not why I was gone.”

“You’re not gonna ne—”

“I went looking for Carol this morning.”

Paul looked startled. He set down his spoon.

“Why?”

“So she’d take the curse off of you.” The words were slow and measured. He was having a hard time looking at Paul directly, but he made himself do it. He owed Paul that much. “I thought I could convince her for you. But she wouldn’t do it. I’m sorry.”

“Gene, you didn’t have to do that for me.”

“I didn’t want you doing something you didn’t want to.”

“But—”

“We’ll call up Ace again. And Suzie. We’ll get this reversed without—”

He stopped when he felt Paul’s hand curve around his. Long, warm fingers tapping against his wrist in a silent request. One he recognized well enough to lift his hand and catch those fingers in his, twining them together. Gene’s mouth twisted, another apology all but dangling from his lips, but Paul spoke instead.

“Gene, I want to do it.”

Gene stared at him, disbelieving. Paul was looking him right in the eye. Really unusual for him. His face wasn’t flushed, mouth wasn’t set in that tight line. Nothing desperate or fearful. His expression was open, brown eyes soft and almost gentle. 

Gene had no idea what had changed. But Paul looked more at peace, and prettier, than he’d ever seen him.

“You want to do it?”

“Yeah. I want to do it. I’m ready. I’m really ready now, I promise.” Paul’s gaze dropped down, seemingly abashed, after a moment, and he picked his spoon back up with his free hand.

“It’s not because I was late, right? You don’t feel—coerced or—”

“Coerced? God, Gene, you…” Paul shook his head. He was smiling. Gene’s heart felt like it was pumping far too hard for his level of exertion, but he couldn’t seem to calm it. “I thought I was the one taking my time. Are you getting cold feet over here?”

“No! I wanna make sure there’s nothing—”

“I’ve just got one condition.”

“Sure. Go ahead.” Gene said it without any consideration at all. His emotions were a bizarre swirl, Paul’s hand somehow the only steadying thing. Conditions. Paul might want oral again to start things off, or maybe he’d want to be on top, to get a little more control. That’d be fine. That’d all be fine. If Paul went really esoteric with it, or gave him credit for flexibility he just didn’t have, there might be an issue, but…

Whatever Paul’s request, he was still smiling, and squeezing Gene’s hand.

“Let me finish lunch first.”

Gene was so relieved he started to laugh.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“And if you’re not gonna eat your half of the soup—”

“That’s non-negotiable,” Gene said, and batted Paul’s incoming spoon away.


	27. in my web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Gene and Paul draw each other, and Gene (finally) makes his confession.

It felt like a shorter lunch than it really was. Paul ate all of his soup, but only half his sandwich, while Gene dove into both with as much relish as usual. In fact, he ate two sandwiches and Paul’s leftovers.

“I hope you didn’t want to do it right after we ate,” Gene said awkwardly. Paul was looking at the plates and silverware, debating cleaning things up. In the end, he just wiped off the counter and stuck all the dishes in the sink.

“Nah. Give it awhile.” He shrugged. “The only trouble is, we’ve pretty much exhausted all our entertainment options at my place.”

Gene smiled.

“Paul, are you really telling me all you have over here is a T.V., an album collection, and some self-help books?”

“I’ve also got sketchpads. And painting supplies.”

“You still paint?”

Paul shrugged again.

“It’s not great. I don’t have time to really…”

“Let me see.”

Gene was actually a pretty fair artist. He never drew cartoons of his bandmates like Paul was prone to, in a bad mood, but he liked to sketch out comic book characters. He’d never taken any classes that Paul knew of, but he was talented. Talented enough that Paul was a little wary of showing him any of his efforts.

It occurred to him how stupid that was. He was about to fuck this guy—had spent the last four nights in bed with him, even—but somehow showing him some acrylic paintings was making him nervous. Somehow what passed for his body of work was more vulnerable than his actual body.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Cool.”

“C’mon, they’re in the guest bedroom. I’m surprised you didn’t find them earlier.” He’d had aspirations of having his own studio, or at least using one of the rooms for that express purpose, before the reality of nine or ten months on the road at a time hit him. He didn’t even paint enough while he was at home to justify that kind of expense.

Gene followed him over to the guest bedroom. Paul leaned over, dress hiking up as he yanked some cardboard and canvases out from under the bed.

“Here we go.” Instead of holding the pieces up for Gene’s inspection, he just set them out on the bed. He hung back a bit, heart thumping, not quite daring to want to watch Gene look at his work. Actually showing it to Gene felt a little like hearing his own voice on the answering machine, or the echo from a microphone, all the flaws bouncing back at him, magnified a dozen times.

The pieces didn’t have too much meaning behind them, nothing really far out or deep he was trying to convey. Bright streaks of color, some of it in splatters, but most of it in strokes, with no consistent pattern. Purples and pinks tended to dominate. There were points where he’d tried to layer on the colors, fooled around with it, only he’d half-forgotten the proper technique to do it the way he wanted. Most of the art didn’t really have a focal point, except for an odd one-off where he’d tried to paint a sunset while it was still in the air. That one was on a piece of cardboard torn off a refrigerator box. It had maybe a found art, rustic quality to it or something. And the color scheme wasn’t too bad, either, the red sun spilling over a hasty backdrop of orange and pink clouds and trees instead of his neighbors’ houses.

“I like this one a lot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Superman couldn’t fly with that sun.” Gene picked up the piece of cardboard carefully—too carefully, a piece of paper that had been beneath it starting to flutter towards the floor. Paul snatched it before it got there.

“What’s that one?”

“Oh, it’s only a sketch,” Paul tried to dismiss, but Gene seemed curious enough for him to hold it up for Gene to see. Part of him wanted to hide it back under the bed like a child, for all that it wasn’t particularly incriminating. Just a sketch of his own face. The hair was probably the most accurate part, hopelessly unruly; he didn’t quite think he’d gotten his own nose right, or eyes, but…

“In the makeup.” Gene’s finger touched the edge of the star on his eye.

“Well, sure. It kept me from having to shade much.”

“You look depressed there.” Gene still running his finger down the sketched-out lines of his face made Paul feel stupidly warm, like he was touching him by proxy.

“I don’t look good?”

“I didn’t say that.” A pause. Paul could always recognize when Gene was about to start a critique with him. He’d hesitate, which was kind of funny, because he never did it with anyone else, just plowed through with whatever comment he had. Paul would usually get offended anyway, but he was trying not to, at least for today. “Hey, would you do me a favor?”

Not a critique at all. Paul was vaguely surprised.

“What’re you wanting?”

“Let me try my hand at it.”

“Gene, I’m not letting you go over my drawing—”

“No, no. Let me borrow one of your sketchpads.”

“You wanna draw me right now? What for?” Paul could feel himself tense up slightly as he reached over, gathering up the paintings and stuffing them back under the bed. Despite himself, he was yanking out another pad of drawing paper from there as well. “If you wanted your album photo, all you had to do was check the newspaper.”

“I don’t want your photo. Just you.”

Paul handed the sketchpad over. There was an odd sting somewhere in his heart.

“You can’t want what you’ve already got,” he said quietly. He didn’t wait for Gene to respond, clearing his throat hastily. “I make a terrible art model.”

Gene’s expression, a little unreadable earlier, quirked a little.

“I’ll let you draw me, too.”

“I feel like you’re hard to draw.” But he’d gotten another piece of cardboard to bear down on after tearing off a page of the drawing paper for himself. Then Paul was gathering the rest of the supplies—pencils and gummy erasers—from where they lay in a coffee mug on the nightstand. It wasn’t exactly the most put-together setup. He just wasn’t around enough for any extra effort to be worth it. The guest bedroom’s only real use was as another place to stash his tour and art stuff. He could count the number of times anyone had slept there on one hand. “You don’t… really have one feature that really stands out—”

Gene stuck out his tongue.

“Oh, God, I’m not drawing  _ that _ . Just your face. C’mon, sit down.” Paul gestured towards the bed, scooting up on it himself, sitting cross-legged on the pillows, dress bunched up. The cardboard and piece of paper were resting on his thighs, one of the pencils in his hand. He gave Gene the mug and sketchpad, scrutinizing Gene’s face. “Let me try first, okay?”

“Go for it.”

He’d never really studied Gene’s face before. That sounded a little stupid, given everything. Gene still wasn’t exactly attractive, though he looked a lot better now than he had when they’d first met. That hadn’t been the draw. It still wasn’t the draw.

Paul didn’t ask Gene to try for any particular expression as he started in, drawing the circle, the center line, mapping out the sections of his face in the half-remembered way he’d learned back in school and trying to adjust from there, only to, as usual, abandon the mapping about two minutes in. Gene’s eyes weren’t quite as dark as his, and his nose was bigger— _ you can’t hide the hook _ , Totie had said, back on their stint on the Mike Douglas show, and Paul remembered snickering with everyone else about it backstage. She’d had his number. Gene had struck up a friendship with her after that, excited to get to know another Jewish entertainer. Paul privately hoped he hadn’t banged her in the process.

He was distracting himself. It was hard to do the expression lines around Gene’s mouth without making him look forty-eight instead of nearly twenty-eight, so Paul abandoned all but a light insinuation before skipping over to his hair. He thought he could get that right, at least. Gene’s hair was somewhat coarse, and tended to frizz even worse than Paul’s own did, and it wasn’t as thick. All of the teasing and backcombing and tight ponytails had done a number on it. Paul pursed his lips, trying to approximate the texture with his pencil, and the sheen with his eraser.

“How’s it coming?” Gene asked, after about fifteen minutes. He’d been pretty patient, not shifting around much, even stopping himself the few times he tried to scratch his face.

“I think I did a damn good job on your eyebrows.” Paul turned the sketch around with a slight groan. “Everything else is a little…”

“You made me look really sad.”

Gene wasn’t wrong. Paul hadn’t quite figured out what to do with Gene’s lips when he’d drawn them, so he’d had them sink down a bit. The eyebrows really were pretty good, to his own estimation, and the hair was okay, and he’d at least started with the proper face shape, but—he hadn’t really caught Gene properly. Whatever his essence was, it hadn’t transferred onto the page.

“Frowns are easier to draw. Smiles, you have to get just right, and get the light in the eyes…” Paul shook his head. “Not a lot of room for error, right? And if you mess up, your drawing ends up looking like Norman Bates.”

Gene laughed, shaking his head.

“But you’ve got me looking like myself. It isn’t just the eyebrows. The chin and the mouth are right--”

“But it’s not great, either. I’ll try again later on.” Paul set the drawing down. “You can do me if you want.”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, shut up.” Paul shifted, suddenly antsy. He’d only ever seen Gene draw his own fanzines and doodle on napkins. He knew Gene wasn’t going to take this as a serious art study, but… but on the same token, letting Gene draw him felt--revealing. Almost too revealing. He wasn’t as bothered by the face Gene was going to draw as what it signified. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what Gene saw when he looked at him. What stood out to him.

If he drew a pair of tits, Paul grimly promised himself he’d keep denying Gene at least until tomorrow.

“Tilt your chin up a bit,” Gene said, and Paul did so. His fingers worried unconsciously at the straps of his dress. Paul waited for more instructions, but they didn’t come. Just the scritch of the pencil against the sketch paper, and the occasional fuzzy sound of the eraser rubbing back and forth on the page. Gene kept such direct eye contact on his face that Paul was getting a bit intimidated.

“You took art in school, right?”

“Only a couple of terms. I liked it, but I wanted to get in all the electives I could.”

“Even weight training?” Paul scooted to the side.

“Your art school had weight training?”

“God, yeah. We even had a football team.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never said we won anything.” Paul paused. “Do you want me to pose?”

“No. You’re fine like you are.”

“Should I smile?”

Gene looked like he was considering it for a second, and then he shook his head.

“Just relax.”

Paul tried to, but he kept fidgeting. Not getting any direction was making him nervous. He wasn’t gutsy enough to try to look alluring without the makeup as a shield. Gene had stopped talking as he’d gotten more into the drawing, only responding to Paul’s attempts at conversation with a few “yeahs” and “uh-huh”s. He was taking longer than Paul had, too. But he seemed pleased with himself far before he signed the bottom and held it out for Paul to see.

“Here you go.”

Paul was a little stunned.

He was nearly right there on the page. Big dark eyes greeted him. Full lips, slightly parted, revealing a little of his front teeth. High cheekbones. Gene’s portrait of him was more thorough and detailed than Paul’s attempt, stopping at the shoulders, where the dress straps drooped. More attractive than Paul knew he actually was; Gene had, oddly, been kinder about Paul’s nose and jaw than was accurate, but all the same-- he’d captured something of Paul on the page. Some facet. Tenseness or intensity or both. The sketch was clearly of a chick, sure, but-- it was him.

“Gene, this… shit, this is really good.” Part of what impressed him was the self-assured pressure and definition of most of the lines. Paul’s own tended to fade out, like he was mentally erasing them after committing them to the page, but Gene went into it with a much heavier hand overall. The contrast was interesting. “And I thought all you could draw was Batman. You’ve been holding out on me for years.”

Gene shrugged.

“I had someone cute in front of me. That makes all the difference.” He paused, moving to sit beside him, pointing at the sketch. “You’ve got pretty eyes.”

“Since just lately?”

“No. Since always.” Gene seemed to hesitate. “Paul, in a way, you don’t really look all that dif--”

“Peter told me they made me look like a beagle,” Paul stumbled out before Gene could finish. He wasn’t sure why he interrupted that way. Gene snorted, reaching over and draping an arm behind Paul’s shoulders. Paul let him.

“Maybe more like a moppet. You remember those posters.”

“Yeah. Julia had them in her room when we were kids.” But he wasn’t displeased at the comparison, somehow, reaching to put the sketches and supplies on the crowded nightstand, before leaning back against Gene’s arm and shoulder. He could feel Gene start to tense, so Paul turned his head, impulsively, pressing a kiss against his cheek. “One of them was a harlequin or something, I don’t remember.”

“Paul.”

“What?”

“You didn’t let me finish. You don’t look all that different.”

“Come off it.” Paul could feel something cold and odd trickle up his spine, something he was almost afraid of. “I’ve had tits for a week and a half, don’t try to kid me.”

“I’ve been kidding myself.”

“Gene, what’re you talking about--”

“You’re the same as you always were. You’re beautiful.”

Paul sat there stunned. The icy feeling up his spine seemed to melt and dissolve in an instant. He didn’t want it to. He wanted to hold onto it. Use it as something to protect him, something to chase away any hurt, any vulnerability. His face was going florid, and all of a sudden, he couldn’t look directly at Gene, staring instead at the hem of his dress.

“I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep. But I think… I think there might still be something there after we break the curse.” Gene’s hand found one of the shoulder straps on his dress, fixing it back up, though his gaze was still firm on Paul’s face. Completely unwavering. Paul’s heartbeat felt like it could smash straight through diamonds. “I know that’s not enough for--”

“It’s enough.”

“Paul, look--”

“It’s enough.” Paul was surprised at the slow strength starting to rise from his voice with every word, like a newborn foal wobbling to its feet. “Even before all this happened. Any time I’ve ever gotten to have with you is enough.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” He was able to look at Gene now, right in the face. The warmth he’d tried to avoid was blazing inside him. It felt funny, somehow, to feel so sure, so certain, in the face of a maybe, that things would still be all right, one way or another. It felt like the bulk of the burden, the fear, was really, truly beginning to dissolve. “Gene, I…”

He couldn’t say it. Gene was waiting on it, face so near his own he could feel his breath. He kissed him instead, reaching his arms around him half-blindly, clenching tight. Paul was panting as soon as Gene broke the kiss, pressing another and another against his cheek and chin and throat, climbing into his lap as though he belonged there, and maybe, for just a little while, he did.

Gene was so warm, so unbelievably warm. Paul could swear he could feel Gene’s own pounding heartbeat against his. His breaths were coming only a little bit better than Paul’s were, his dark eyes dilated. Gene’s mouth was back on his before Paul could think clearly, needy and wanting, and it was all Paul could do to pull back and manage one last request.

“Hey. Before we-- do you think you could take me back to o-- my bedroom?”

Gene had him gathered up in his arms in seconds. Paul held tight, pressing his face against Gene’s shirt for all of the minute it took to cross from one room to the next, taking in his scent as he finally dared to hope.


	28. and let me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: Paul and Gene finally go all the way.

Within ten minutes, Gene was splayed on his stomach on the bed, eating Paul out almost ravenously. One of Paul’s bare feet kept rubbing up and digging into his back with every lick and suck, encouragement Gene didn’t even need.

The musky scent and taste of him was intoxicating. Gene felt like he could bury his face in Paul’s pussy forever. Paul didn’t seem to be averse to that, legs shifting, thighs tightening mercilessly around his head. Strangled little cries were giving way to sharp screams. Paul had started off clenching the covers again, but his hands had found their way to Gene’s scalp before too long. He wasn’t digging in as hard as last time. Closer to petting, really, telescoping Gene’s whole world, each touch, each sensation, down to just Paul. It was a real effort to lift his head—Paul grunted in protest immediately—and really take a good look at how unraveled Paul was getting. 

His skin was flushed, eyes half-lidded and so heavily dilated they were practically black. Hair already a mess. Chest heaving. He should’ve looked more vulgar, obscene, even, but somehow he didn’t. Paul almost looked sweet. He still had a bra on. It wasn’t the one from the day before; it was the cream one he’d gotten from that first boutique, the day they’d both bought punk outfits for CBGB. Gene reached beneath it, pushing past the tiny bit of lace edging to cup and squeeze one breast. Paul jerked, hips twitching forward in a quick spasm.

“Take it off,” Gene murmured. Paul sat up only enough to unhook the bra. He cast it aside, then reached down, hands returning to Gene’s hair. “You already look ravished, did you know that?”

“Just get back down there.”

“I mean it, though. I like seeing you this way.”

Paul’s face scrunched up, and instead of answering, he grabbed Gene by the head and shoved him back between his legs. Gene took the hint.

\--

Gene got him through two orgasms with just his mouth and fingers. Paul’s legs felt like jelly by the end of it, and yet the oversensitivity he was accustomed to after a round wasn’t there at all. Just like before, he could definitely go again.

Gene had been warming him up to it; he knew it. Getting him ready. He was soaking wet still no matter how much Gene had lapped away at his pussy. Way wetter than he’d ever gotten alone. His clit was swollen and tender, nipples hard. At some point Gene had stripped down to his boxers, and now Paul was tugging them down, too, working at his dick as soon as they were off. Gene was on top of him, heavy against him, swearing softly under his breath with every stroke of Paul’s hand.

He was thinking about his first time. The real one. He’d thought that after, everything would be different.  _ He _ would be different. More confident, more self-assured. But then he’d gone home, and realized he was still sleeping in the same bed, and still waking up to the sound of Ericka squalling in the crib. Still haunted by the same fears. He hadn’t changed. Nothing had shattered or expanded his worldview. He was still Stanley Eisen. He’d just gotten laid, that was all.

Now it was going to be different. Things were going to change. Even best case scenario, things were going to change. The drawing and the photo and all those clothes were going to be about the only physical reminders of the last several days. They’d go back on tour, and...

“You okay?” Gene’s expression was mildly strained. Probably because he’d stopped jacking him off. Paul figured he’d get him off early and delay everything another fifteen minutes at least if he wasn’t careful. Part of him didn’t want to be that careful. 

“Just thinking.” He exhaled softly. “I guess I kinda wanna apologize. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’re doing great.” Gene’s eyes darted to the nightstand. “Paul, did you want to use a condom—”

Paul flinched and shook his head.

“Really?”

“I don’t like the feel.”

“I don’t either, but—”

“Besides, I’m pretty sure we’ve ended up with all the same V.D.s as it is.”

“I was more worried I might get you pregnant.”

“How would you—oh.” It took a minute for the realization to connect. Paul gnawed on his lip. “I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem.”

“Did she say?”

“No, but—” Paul cut himself off abruptly. This wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have with Gene right before sleeping with him. “If having sex once gets rid of the curse, that doesn’t leave any room to get pregnant.”

Gene nodded, though he still looked a bit wary.

“Besides, you’d take responsibility, right?” Paul said wryly. “Your mom’d be thrilled at you finally knocking up a nice Jewish girl instead of a Gentile—”

“Paul, I fucking swear you’re making me want to get that condom.”

Paul snorted.

“They’re at the very back of that drawer.”

He was surprised that Gene didn’t immediately go digging through the nightstand. More surprised when Gene shook his head instead.

“If you’re down to go without it, I am.” 

“All right.”

_ Give yourself up _ , Carol had said. He’d thought he knew what she’d meant. Letting him. But that wasn’t the whole of it. Letting his guard down. Letting himself get close enough and vulnerable enough to be hurt.

( _ give yourself up _ )

( _ give  _ yourself  _ up _ )

“I love you, Gene.”

Something seemed to shift. Paul wasn’t waiting on an answer in kind. It wouldn’t have been fair to expect. But Gene’s gaze on him seemed to get warmer. Gene’s lips pressed against his, hot and fervent, and almost more than he could bear. Gene’s hands coursed over his body like he was trying to memorize each inch of skin, leaving Paul almost too overwhelmed to respond at first. But he got there. He got there. His fingers traced over the muscles of Gene’s back, stroked down his chest as Gene’s mouth found his collarbone, kissing and nipping up the left side of his neck. Paul wanted a hold on him. He’d thought he was over being so hopeless, thought he was willing to let the cards fall as they might, but every touch rekindled his own desperation. He wanted some meaning, some sign that this wouldn’t be the last time. That there really would be something between them after. That Gene could still see him as someone worth wanting once this body was gone.

Gene rubbed the head of his cock against Paul’s slick folds, sending a shiver of anticipation straight through him. Paul started to tilt his hips into it, encouraged but nervous all at once. He’d had such a poor time trying to penetrate himself alone. But he felt like he was more open now, clit swollen and throbbing slightly, all the blood feeling like it’d long since gone straight between his legs and stayed there. Gene was looking at him for a go-ahead, and when Paul nodded, he finally began to push inside him, dissolving all the space between them. Paul’s breaths hitched, expecting more pain than he felt. It stung at first, enough that his eyes watered briefly, despite how wet he was, how much Gene had worked him up. The weirdness of the sensation, being stretched and filled in a way he never had before, still made him tense up, and he cursed softly. Gene’s eyebrows were knitted.

“You all right?”

“Yeah. Go ahead.”

“You’re really tight, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not. Keep… ngh, keep going.”

Gene nodded, but he still looked a little wary. Paul took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves, get accustomed to the feeling, and after a few seconds, some of the pressure seemed to subside. His body was starting to not just accommodate Gene’s dick, but welcome it in. Faint sparks of pleasure coursed up his spine, and he started to wriggle his hips, trying to chase that sensation. He’d had his legs splayed flat against the bed to start, unsure of what to do with them—which was pretty stupid, honestly, given how many girls he’d had—but now he was shifting, wrapping his legs around the back of Gene’s thighs. Trying to tug him tighter in, get all the contact he could. Gene’s first thrusts were a little slow and shallow, uncertain. Paul could feel Gene’s gaze on him, the mix of concern and need all over his face. He reached up, tugging Gene down by the shoulder for another kiss and a little more reassurance.

“Gene, I’m okay. Keep going,” he repeated, breathing unsteady. “’M not made of glass here.” His other hand found Gene’s, braced against the mattress. Paul grabbed his wrist, and when Gene raised his hand, Paul took it, locking their fingers together, squeezing his palm.

“You got quiet on me. I want to make sure you’re feeling good.”

“I am. Promise.”

“You’ll tell me?”

Someone as sex-obsessed as Gene worried about his performance. At any other time, it might’ve been hilarious. It still was funny enough that Paul crooked a smile, although it made him feel a little heady, too.

“I’ll tell you. Now c’mon.” Paul untangled his legs from around Gene’s, raising them up and then locking them around Gene’s waist instead. It felt more secure there, the angle at least seemed better, maybe tighter, almost. Another thrust confirmed it. Paul moaned, grip on Gene’s hand tightening, cursing, encouraging. It wasn’t anything like being fucked as a guy, though he hadn’t expected it to be. It honestly felt a lot better. More nerve endings, much less resistance, something. He didn’t know. He was clamping down on Gene’s dick unconsciously, with Gene panting above him, his thrusts deeper and faster as the pressure mounted.

Gene squeezed his breast with his free hand, making Paul let out another sharp cry. Gene’s forehead was drenched in sweat before very long, his hair sticking to his skin, face contorted. Gene was watching him so intently it should have been intimidating. It was awhile before some of that intensity faded, before Gene really seemed to let go of any more misplaced caution. Touching and caressing and fucking him in a way he’d never be able to again. Paul couldn’t let himself think about that. His nails dug briefly into Gene’s palm, hips jerking of their own accord as Gene plunged into him again.

A day’s worth of fooling around with him hardly made Paul an expert, but Gene looked like he was closer than him. He wasn’t nearly as vocal as Paul, only groaning a bit, but his pace had started to get erratic, the hand in his getting almost as sweat-slicked as his face. Paul shivered. His own pleasure hadn’t been building the same way as when Gene had gone down on him; it was slower, steadier. Gene was following along with every moan, eagerly redoubling on whatever made Paul cry out, but there was some visible strain now. It wouldn’t be long until—

“I’m—please don’t stop, I’m getting there, I swear…” Paul trailed haphazardly. 

“What do you need?”

Gene’s words were so warm that Paul felt like he might burst. Gene had sat up a bit. There was finally a little bit of space between them. Paul wouldn’t have wanted that earlier, but now, taking Gene’s other hand, he realized it might be what he needed.

“Touch me while we fuck. Please, right—”

He couldn’t come out with it. It felt too bizarre to actually talk about any part of his current body, any part besides his breasts. He just grabbed Gene’s free hand, guiding it between his legs, to his clit.

Just the first few strokes of Gene’s fingertips against his clit made him shudder. Gene started thrusting again soon after, somehow invigorated-- he had to let go of Paul’s hand, brace his hand against his shoulder instead to keep his balance, but Paul didn’t mind, his vision starting to swim as he felt himself get to the edge again and again. It wasn’t just the need welling up within him, amped up by Gene’s hand; it went deeper. He felt like he was encompassed by Gene. No. Tangled, entwined with him. For a few brief seconds he was all sensation, no fear, no insecurities, melded with Gene as one. No matter what happened after, that feeling of belonging he’d craved so desperately all his life was right there, right now, with him.

“Oh, oh, fuck, Paul…”

It wasn’t simultaneous, but it was close. He couldn’t feel it when Gene came inside him, but he could see it, hear it in the sudden, softly mumbled curses. Between that and Gene’s fingers still working him, it was enough to push Paul to climax before long, screaming Gene’s name in a ragged syllable. The orgasm seemed to stretch a little longer than the others, leaving him panting against Gene as both their bodies stilled.

“You did so good,” Gene said finally. He was smiling, tugging Paul in close, rolling him to the side. Paul wrapped his arms around him tight, crooked a smile back.

“You were pretty good yourself.”

Gene hadn’t pulled out yet. That was an odd sensation, too, Gene going soft inside him. He liked it. It was like Gene had forgotten who he was with, forgotten they were supposed to have just broken a curse. Like he wanted to keep him there. Keep them together. Paul could hold onto that thought for a long time—but then, he still had his legs wrapped around Gene’s waist, too. It was a few more moments before Paul convinced himself to let go, legs dropping to the mattress.

He was kind of sore, not surprisingly, even in the afterglow, and once Gene withdrew, he could already start to feel some wetness seeping out from his pussy. Come or blood or both. His cheek rested against Gene’s chest, and he waited. Gene’s gaze on him was mild, arms around him steadying, but Paul knew he was waiting, too. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how long it’s gonna be.”

“Paul, don’t be sorry.”

“I didn’t feel anything last time.” He’d meant it to ease any fears Gene might have over him transforming back, but instead he kept going, weirdly compelled. “Well, I thought my nipples were kind of sore the night before, but…”

“But it didn’t hurt?”

“No. I-I…”

“Paul?” Suddenly, strangely, Gene’s expression seemed to flicker. The whole room did. He felt tired, far more tired than he should have. There was an inordinate heaviness to his limbs, his body, one he couldn’t shake off, couldn’t struggle against for more than the moment it took to mouth Gene’s name, just before his world went white.


	29. you're coming back into my arms again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. **Complete.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this story draws to a close, I wanted to go ahead and thank everyone who's reviewed or even just read for their support. It makes my day, every day.
> 
> I would like to thank a couple people in particular: **baycitystygian** , who read/commented over an early draft of the last chapter, **tanookikiss** , who read/commented over several chapters, sometimes multiple times, and finally, most particularly, **planet-neun** , who offered suggestions and advice (particularly on the final sex scene) on nearly all drafts from chapter six onward, and endured my various complaints and concerns over this story with an unfathomable amount of patience.
> 
> I would also like to thank **helena_s_renn** over on Rockfic for her sticking with this story for all 29 chapters and providing amazing feedback every single chapter and step of the way.

He was back at his parents’ old apartment, watching T.V. Same station, different airing. Hollywood Squares instead of Neil Armstrong. Paul Lynde rattling out some campy zinger. Beyond, in the next room, he could hear his mother on the phone, her tone low and worried, but he couldn’t tell what she was saying.

Marbas was sitting next to him again on the couch, languid, nearly casual. No pretenses, no masks of Julia or Carol or any of the dozens of other girls who’d wandered in and out of his life. Paul tried to focus on the T.V. set, only daring to look at Marbas in fleeting, sideways glances, as though full acknowledgement would be too much to bear.

“You took your time,” the demon said simply.

_ (i guess it’s done now)_

“If that’s what you’d like.”

_ (carol said—)_

“My powers are hardly dependent on a child’s understanding. You performed the ritual. But the end result is up to you, Stan.”

_ (i’m going back to normal)_

_ (i’ve got to)_

“Why?” Marbas didn’t look surprised. Those yellow eyes were glinting with nothing but mild interest. “You took to the curse readily enough, once you saw what it brought you.”

_ (i—)_

“I said you’d have been no different if you’d always been this way. I said you’d never have given yourself up to him. But I was wrong. You did all that was required.” His teeth glistened with spit. “You enjoyed it. You could keep enjoying it.”

_ (i don’t—)_

“What’s a body to you, Stan? Something imperfect. Something to despise.” Marbas’ fingers reached over and lifted a curly lock of Paul’s hair, right at his temple. He felt the air on the remnant of his right ear, and cringed, trying to pull back. “Your insecurity makes you so malleable. What ties you to that other form? Nothing but familiarity. You’d be anyone at all as long as it gained you favor.”

_(you’re wrong)_

_(i’m not like that—i’m myself, i have a self, i—)_

“You hate yourself.”

Paul didn’t answer.

“I could give you less to hate.” Marbas’ human hand cupped the stub of his ear without actually touching the cartilage, just the surrounding skin, pushing against the side of Paul’s face, easing his line of sight completely towards the screen. Paul inhaled sharply, unable to turn his head away from where Marbas was tilting it. His eyes were fixed to the television screen in front of him, the image fuzzing out, becoming his own. His face smiling at him. Only his teeth onscreen were straight and white. The longer he stared, the more changes he noticed. Subtle ones. Nothing that made him unrecognizable, just pushed him past sort of attractive and maybe almost into beautiful. More delicate, symmetrical facial features than he really had. A better figure, one with an actual waist and ass to go along with the tits, and a thinner frame overall. The kind of girl that Gene would want to have on his arm. The kind of girl that Gene was used to having on his arm.

_(_ _ gene said he didn’t want a playboy playmate ) _

_ ( gene said he wanted me ) _

“Are you so sure about what he wants?”

_(_ _ he proved it ) _

“He slept with you once.” Marbas’ voice was low and strange. “Would he have done that in your old body? Would he have ever considered it?”

_(_ _ no ) _

“What makes you think he’ll consider it now?”

_ ( because he ) _

_ ( because he said there might be something after, that’s why ) _

“He couldn’t make a guarantee.” The words seeped thick as honey, sticky against his soul. Nothing he wasn’t aware of. Nothing he could fault Gene for. “I could make it for him.”

_ (we completed the ritual. y-you said so.) _

“Take a closer look, Stan. You might find something that appeals to you.”

The girl on the T.V. tugged a hand through her curly dark hair without hesitation, pushing it away from her face, back behind a perfectly normal right ear. Better than any result he’d ever seen in those cosmetic surgery leaflets. Confident. So confident. The way everyone else was. The way everyone else must feel, all the time, with nothing to hide, nothing— and part of Paul was horrified at his own aching desire.

_ (but—) _

_ (you can’t, there’s no way—) _

“Do you want to try it?” Marbas didn’t wait on an answer. His fingers, still curved around the remnant of Paul’s right ear, began to stroke it. Paul’s breaths were coming in short, sharp bursts, and this time was different, this time the stub of cartilage was shot through with sensation. It felt like far too much, the tingling, prickling feeling radiating outward, across his face, slipping in deeper, past his skin, all the way to his bones. The sensation traveled down his neck, spreading all the way through his chest and limbs, leaving him gasping, crying out.

_ (what are you doing?!) _

_ (please, please stop, it hurts, it hurts!) _

Marbas let go of him, hand returning to rest on the back of the couch. Paul could move again, and he reached with shaking, disbelieving fingers to his ear. The folded-over stub was gone. It felt just like his left ear. And there was sound, clearer than he’d ever heard before in his life, more encompassing, more surrounding. Almost too intense and vivid to be believed. The whir of the fan on the floor, the buzz of the T.V., even his mother on the phone in the kitchen sounded so much more distinct— he could hear what she was saying, though her voice was strange and low—

(are you okay)

as tears started to sting his eyes and drip down his cheeks. Oh.  _ Oh. _ He wanted to get up, to play every record in his collection and find out what he’d missed, what subtleties he’d lost out on. Catch all those intricate melodies and sound layerings in a way he’d never, ever been able to before. He wanted to go to all the parties he’d been too afraid to attend because he couldn’t distinguish the conversations. He wanted to play his guitar. He wanted to go onstage and fully hear that crowd for the first time in his life. He wanted to tell Gene—

(paul?)

His mother was still calling out from the kitchen, oddly questioning. Couldn’t have been speaking to him. She never called him anything but Stanley. He ignored her, stumbling off the couch, one hand still on his ear. A glance down at his breasts only briefly dampened his excitement.

_ (what about my family? what about my career?) _

Marbas didn’t answer, but Paul knew it in his heart. They’d be forfeit, or altered so heavily they might as well be forfeit. He’d never be able to see Ericka again as her uncle. He’d never be able to reconcile with Julia. Never even be a son to his parents.

Then there was KISS. But a price had to be paid for everything, didn’t it? He didn’t think Ace would fault him over it, once he knew why. Peter, either, not really. And— and besides, if he made the choice, he wouldn’t just be getting a normal body. He’d get a normal relationship with Gene. Nothing under wraps, no open secrets. He could really be with Gene the way he knew Gene had to want him. Comfortable. Happy.

His parents’ old apartment spun and dissolved to nothing, Marbas disappearing with it. He was lying on his side on a bed. It wasn’t his own, but it smelled faintly of his cologne. It smelled like Gene, too— Gene, who was beside him, a little worry on his face.

Paul tried to say his name, but couldn’t quite get the word out, throat thick and heavy. His face was still wet, he realized.

“What’s the matter?”

His head felt like concrete, almost impossible to shake. He managed it, just barely. His fingers tightened around his right ear, hiding it from view, tracing helplessly across the cartilage. Gene reached over, touching his wrist.

“Does it hurt?”

Paul shook his head one more time. 

“You sound… you sound so good, Gene.”

There was nothing to hide anymore. He knew it. Nothing wrong with that ear at all, and yet Paul dug his fingers into his scalp anyway, tugging a couple curls forward to cover it before wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Gene’s expression softened.

“I’m glad.” His lips met Paul’s, brief but warm. “You look even better.”

Paul glanced down reflexively. He was in a black, lace-encrusted teddy. He’d barely glanced at those when he’d looked through the lingerie section of the boutique. Not just because of the uncomfortable-looking clasp at the crotch, either; he knew a teddy was all wrong for the way he was built. Even as a girl, he had a certain boxiness to his figure, his breasts the only thing of consequence really breaking up his torso. Now it was different. He filled the lingerie out properly, the thin fabric clinging to every newly-pronounced curve. His waist was smaller, and the bit of stomach fat that had carried over so hatefully from his male body had evaporated entirely. 

He ran his tongue across his teeth. They were straight, perfectly even. His hand shifted from his hair to feel around his face. He couldn’t really tell a difference there without a mirror, but that didn’t matter much. The rest of his body had given him a damn good idea. He looked like the girl on the T.V. 

Beautiful. Whole. He’d never been either of those things before, not in his entire life. 

“You haven’t gotten used to it yet.”

“I—no. I-I guess not.”

“Does it bother you?” Gene didn’t elaborate, and Paul wasn’t sure how to answer. 

“Being like this?” Paul hesitated. He didn’t know how to put it into words at all. He didn’t feel badly about it; he couldn’t possibly. This had to be the ticket, more bafflingly generous than he’d ever be granted otherwise. He’d—he’d gotten elevated. He’d be someone else entirely now. Not just physically. He’d throw off all the insecurities and neuroticism that had plagued Stanley Eisen and Paul Stanley, because all the reasons for them had disappeared. He’d be the person Gene had to want him to be, in and out of bed. He’d be better to everyone this way, even to himself, especially to himself. He’d be happy.

“Yeah.”

“No. It doesn’t bother me.”

Gene started to smile.

“Okay.” He snapped one of the drooping straps of the teddy. “Might wanna get dressed sometime. We’re supposed to be negotiating your advance from Casablanca today.”

An advance from Casablanca. So Gene had gotten him in somehow. Gene and all the guys, probably. A solo deal. He’d still be able to sing. He’d still have an audience, even if he never got the crowds he had with KISS. Even if none of them ever did. Paul’s stomach cartwheeled with his own selfishness.

“You’d… you’ve done all that for me?”

“It wasn’t that hard. We got all the songs you’d started, made some demos… Bill thought you were great.”

“He always has.” Paul watched Gene start to skirt a hand across his thigh, and he batted it lightly away before Gene’s hand could get between his legs. “Hey, I thought you said I should get dressed sometime.”

“Sometime has about two hours of leeway. And you’ve got to get undressed first.” Gene’s hand wandered back like an unrepentant puppy, and this time, Paul let him get a grope in. Gene cupped his ass, not even half-contained within the teddy, fondling and squeezing it lightly. “... You sure you’re okay there, Paul?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He hesitated. “Gene, things are good, aren’t they?”

“Things are good.”

“Things with us, I mean. I mean— you’re happy, aren’t you? You don’t resent—”

“There’s nothing to resent.”

Gene slid his hand up from his ass, slowly stroking his way up Paul’s back through the thin fabric. Paul closed his eyes, trying to relax into the touch.

“But the band. I know I cost everyone so much money, not… not going back, you can’t say there’s nothing to resent when I pulled that kind of stunt—”

“I know why you did it.” Warm, steady fingers massaging his shoulders, then urging him closer in. Paul found himself closing the rest of the gap between them willingly, helplessly, pressing himself against Gene’s chest. “It’s all right, Paul.”

The words didn’t ease his mind as much as he’d hoped. Paul opened his eyes, shifting slightly, pushing a kiss to Gene’s mouth. Gene didn’t deepen the kiss immediately, a surprise, given how he’d been fondling him earlier. His hand just coursed up past his shoulders and neck, tangling through Paul’s hair. Not just stroking it the way he had before. He was trying to smooth and push it back, fingers inching towards his right ear. Paul jerked away with a start before Gene’s fingers so much as brushed against it. 

Sorry was on his lips, but he couldn’t manage it. His face was burning. Gene didn’t look surprised at all, only resigned.

“You always worry so much. You don’t need to anymore.”

Paul didn’t say anything. Gene reached for him again after a bit, arm draping over his back. It should have been soothing, but it wasn’t. He knew too much. He understood too much. Paul’s gaze drooped down to the lace edging the bottom of the teddy, down further, to the long, tanned legs that were and weren’t his, and then he finally managed to speak again.

“I haven’t changed at all, have I?”

“Paul, what do you mean?”

“Just what I said. I-I thought that… I thought I’d be better.”

“You’ll get better. This is still new for you.” 

Paul shook his head.

“I got it all fixed.” His heart felt like it was being tugged and twisted, warped out of recognition. “I got everything fixed up and I’m… I’m still myself.”

“Paul—”

“It’s no good. I’m the same. Don’t you get it?” The pressure of Gene’s arm around him seemed lighter with every word out of Paul’s mouth, though he hadn’t moved at all. “It’s no good at all.”

“Paul, wait—”

“I don’t want it.”

The last faint touch of Gene’s skin against his back faded into nothing. The whole scene melted out in front of him, Gene’s bedroom replaced again by his parents’ apartment, Marbas sitting beside him on the couch. His expression hadn’t shifted.

_ (i’d be no different) _

_ (i’d be no good) _

“Would you have to be good for him?”

_ (you don’t understand, this isn’t all about him) _

All his life trying to belong. All his life, knowing there was something he was missing, that he couldn’t hope to achieve but tried to snatch at anyway. Self-confidence he’d only been able to mimic onstage, draped in leather and feathers, done up in high heels and lipstick. Brightness he’d only been able to reflect, never possess on his own.

None of that would come from just having this body. All the old foibles and fears wouldn’t be banished. They might even be magnified. A girl had a whole other set of worries, one he’d mostly been protected from. A whole other set of expectations he couldn’t meet. He wouldn’t be any more at peace with himself; he’d be struggling to put on in a dozen new ways and still find himself lacking.

No magic pill. No wish upon a star, no becoming a real girl for him; it would still be skin-deep at best. He couldn’t erase the parts of himself he despised. There wouldn’t be any inherent reinvention in getting a better body and guaranteeing Gene’s interest. Guaranteeing Gene’s love. And even that was only according to Marbas himself.  _ No guarantees anywhere _ , that was what Ace had said. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t run away from himself.

(that’s okay, stan)

The words seemed to come out of nowhere at all. Not the T.V. screen, not Marbas, not his mother on the phone. That familiar, clear voice that enunciated everything so carefully. Gene. 

Paul actually turned around on the couch, expecting to see Gene there. He felt stupid as he stood up, bare toes digging into the thin carpet, and started to look around the room, as if anyone but the demon was there with him.

_ (gene?) _

(you’re okay)

Gene had said that seven years ago, on a cold wintery afternoon, to some shy, fat teenage boy he must have brought along out of pity. He’d said it, and Paul had never stopped craving that reassurance, never stopped wanting Gene for it, the longing warm and heavy in his heart. He’d said that when Paul had nothing at all to offer him, not talent or money or a pretty face or a body he could’ve wanted. He’d said it, already knowing the worst of Paul, already knowing all the parts of himself he’d tried to keep hidden. All the parts he’d wanted to be rid of. All that, and Gene had still found something to accept.

(you’re okay)

The sentence draped over him like a boxer’s medallion, empowering as a mantra. There was a fullness in his chest, in his throat, that for once, even his own neuroses couldn’t break through. Though he wasn’t enough for himself, he’d been enough for Gene all that time ago. He’d be enough for Gene now, even if they never slept together again.

The demon finally spoke up from the couch, lifting his head to look at Paul. His amber eyes were unreadable.

“He’d take care of you if you stayed this way,” Marbas said quietly. “He’d take care of you the rest of your life.”

The air in the room was suddenly swelteringly thick. Like those dirt cheap hotels and motels down South, from before they could afford places with air conditioning. For a brief moment, he thought he felt Gene’s hand brush against his face.

_ (he already does) _

_(he already will)_

\--

Gene lay there with Paul’s head resting on his chest. Paul didn’t move at all for a long time. His breaths were so rhythmic and perfectly even that it was eerie. An enchanted sleep.

Gene remembered the old monster movies he used to watch on T.V. as a teenager. The Wolfman, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, all that. The frame-by-frame shifts from human to creature and back again. It was probably going to be profoundly bizarre, and in a way, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to watch—but on the same token, he didn’t want to leave Paul alone, in case the transformation ended up hurting him.

So still. After half an hour without any change, Gene gingerly sat up. Paul’s head lolled back; his whole body seemed boneless. Gene rustled a bit, struggling to pull some of the covers they’d been laying on over them both, deciding Paul’s dignity was more important than his own curiosity. Gene wrapped an arm back around Paul, and kept waiting.

Almost over. Gene wasn’t sure how he’d feel. No. No, that wasn’t quite true anymore, if it ever had really been. Drawing the contours of Paul’s face had solidified what he’d already known, deep down. Paul didn’t resemble his sister nearly so much as he resembled himself. 

Paul shifted, finally. Those fidgety movements he had always been prone to in his sleep, like those nerves of his never really got a moment to ease up. He’d nudged his knee against Gene’s thigh. He was mumbling under his breath, something Gene couldn’t decipher. His eyes opened.

Gene’s stomach felt like it was dropping to the floor. God, Paul’d woken up without turning back at all.

“Are you okay?” But then, staring at the blank look in Paul’s expression, the total lack of response, Gene realized he wasn’t awake, for all his eyes were watering up. “Paul?”

He started tapping Paul on the shoulder, then squeezing his hand. No response. Paul’s eyes shut just as quickly as they’d opened—Gene wiped at them with the back of his hand—head slouching to the side, face pressed against Gene’s shoulder, the pressure burning hot and suddenly strange. For a second, Gene almost swore he could feel the shift of bones against his arm, the gradual, weird sensation of stubble scratching against his shoulder, before he fell asleep himself, into a nap as short and dreamless as any other.

\--

He woke up to exactly what he’d expected. Paul was still lying there beside him. His breaths against Gene’s skin were natural now, not that almost metronomic regularity. Gene didn’t even have to move the sheets to know he was back to normal. He still had an arm around Paul; he could feel the difference just in the width of his shoulders. Paul had moved more in his sleep, too, facedown against Gene’s chest again, the scruff on his chin and jawline insinuating itself there, all smoothness gone. He thought he’d mind that much more than he did.

Instead, he just reached over with his free hand, tentatively stroking his fingers through Paul’s curls. He was going to have to dye his hair again before the tour, Gene realized mundanely; the jet-black had started to fade out around the roots to his natural dark brown. He’d probably been meaning to get a touch-up right around the time he’d been cursed. Paul was like that, noticing flaws way before anyone else did.

Paul was like that.

He started to stir right around the time Gene’s fingers caught and tugged against a tangle a little too hard. Slowly, with a small grunt, Paul raised his head off Gene’s chest, turning to look at him, eyes half-shut and squinty. The slightly softer, more delicate female face Gene had woken up to for the last several days was gone. In its place was Paul’s face as he’d known it for eight years now. Paul as he really was.

“Welcome back.”

Paul opened his eyes fully. For a second he didn’t quite seem to react. Gene watched as he threw off the covers and looked down at himself, tracing a trembling hand down the right side of his face, then his flat, hairy chest, breaths hitching as his fingers coursed over one hip, to his stomach, finally to his cock, confirming it was all there. Everything restored.

He didn’t quite expect Paul’s arms around him, tugging him in tight, inadvertently pinning him against the bed. Broader, stronger arms than what he’d gotten used to lately. No softness to his chest. Less give overall. The pressure was so different, different but familiar. The scent of him, too. He wrapped his arms around Paul in return, almost on automatic, his fingers making small, brief circles against Paul’s skin. The side of Paul’s face was buried against Gene’s neck, and he was still breathing hard as he spoke.

“Gene, Gene, w-we did it. We did it!”

“We did it.”

“We—we can go on tour. I can go see Ericka, Gene, I… you don’t know how much this—I don’t know how to… how to thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

“There is. You’ve got no idea. You wouldn’t believe it. I can’t…” Paul shook his head rapidly, his hair brushing Gene’s lips. Guileless in his own relief. Like it still hadn’t quite occurred to him that he was straddling him naked. “I couldn’t have gotten back without you.”

“You could’ve.” Gene smiled despite himself. “Give yourself more credit than that.”

“But it would’ve been awful.” Paul seemed like he was struggling for the right words. “You don’t understand. You made me feel… like I was all right. You always have. Nobody’s ever…” Paul stopped, shaking his head again. “You’ve been so good to me.”

“I really haven’t—”

Paul kissed him. The motion was quick, almost apologetic. Two seconds at best of Paul’s mouth pressed against his, the slight scrape of his stubble against Gene’s skin as he pulled back. It didn’t feel the same, being kissed by him. It wouldn’t be the same.

“I’m sorry.” Paul seemed to realize it, too, abruptly climbing off of him and sitting up on the bed. Gene sat up, too, back against the headboard. “I know you couldn’t promise anything.”

“Paul.”

“I’ll just get dressed. I’ll call the guys up in a minute.” Paul hesitated, then swung his legs off the side of the bed. He didn’t get up, just sat there, running his fingers down his own arms and chest, as if he were cold or something, or else getting his bearings. Maybe he was just trying to feel around for himself, make positive there wasn’t any residual trace of that female body left—but Gene didn’t think that was all of it. 

“Are you really going to leave it at that?”

Paul stiffened. His eyes darted towards him, then back towards the covers. His teeth were sunk into his lower lip. Gene had seen that mannerism so many times. The fragility and insecurity that were a part of him, regardless of his body. No faith in himself. That was all right. Gene had enough faith for the both of them.

“Leave it at what?”

Gene scooted over until he was sitting next to him on the bed, bare feet on the shag carpet. He reached over, resting a hand on Paul’s thigh. Paul glanced at him again, quickly, hesitantly, before finally placing his own hand on top of Gene’s. The way he’d done in the car, on the way to Central Park. His hand was broader, larger, but just as warm, and just as much his as he laced his fingers between Gene’s. It still seemed to belong there. Even more when Gene turned up his wrist, to hold Paul’s hand properly in his, squeezing it tight.

“I missed you,” Gene said. “I really missed you.”

Paul shook his head, made a sound like a laugh. Trying to protect himself even now. It hurt to hear it. But his hand stayed clasped in Gene’s. He wasn’t pulling back. Gene would never give him a reason to, not now.

“C’mon, I know you liked me better…”

“I like you better happy.”

“But I—” Paul swallowed. His expression was open, vulnerable. He looked like he wanted so badly to believe. He looked a little afraid. “I’m not what you want anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s true. I know it. I-I figured all along it wouldn’t turn out. I really did.” Paul took a breath. “I don’t blame you. I mean, look at me, I’m not—”

“I’m looking at you. I’ve been looking at you this whole time. ” Those same big brown eyes, same slightly crooked chin and full lips greeted him as all those days ago on the front porch. The same soul. Gene let go of Paul’s hand, reaching out and cupping the left side of his face, tracing his fingers down from his temple to his jaw, to the pulse of his neck, all the way down to his flat, hairy chest. Everything he’d explored before. Every touch was different now, but the same warmth and want was spreading through him. It hadn’t gone away. Hadn’t faded. “I’m looking at someone I wanna be with.”

“Gene—it’s just not gonna be like it was, you know that.”

“I know that.” Gene moved his hand, tracing one nipple before sliding his palm directly above it. Paul’s heartbeat was pounding beneath his hand. “It’s gonna be better.”

“I’m a lot less cute to wake up to this way.” Paul started to try and smile, mouth wavering. His brows were furrowed. For a second, he raised his hand like he was going to push Gene’s hand away, but instead it rested on top of it again, Paul’s fingers pressing down against the back of Gene’s hand. No full, heavy breast to squeeze and toy with anymore. “I-it’s a real bad trade-off. I’ll wear out all your razors.”

“You’ll have to do better than that to talk me out of you.”

Paul faltered, and he looked away. Gene let his own gaze shift from Paul’s face to his bare shoulder. No dress strap to fix anymore, either. But the same handful of small moles were still there, the rose tattoo just as sharp and clear as ever against his skin.

“I’d… you couldn’t be seen with me, not… not like in the Park—you like that, don’t you, showing some pretty girl off, I couldn’t—”

“I love you, Paul.”

Four words. Four words he hadn’t managed before. Not in the basement, dancing to that old record. Not when he’d first kissed him at Studio 54. Not when he’d taken him home from CBGB. Not in the rowboat, and not those few hours ago when Paul himself had finally said it. But it had been true even then. He realized that now. Paul had his heart all along. 

Paul was staring at him, eyes wide, color spreading on his face. Gene leaned in, fingers curving around his chin, meeting Paul’s parted lips with his own, nothing brief or cautious, but full. Trying to impart all he couldn’t manage to say, all that would spill over and be meaningless if he tried to give it words.

At first, Paul only seemed to yield to the touch. But then his mouth pressed back against Gene’s, warm and wet, as his arms found their way around Gene’s waist.

Each kiss felt more certain and firm than the last, each movement more fluid, their bodies fitting and molding against each other just as easily and naturally as before. Gene was swept up in it, almost overcome, every touch its own affirmation as he explored the contours of Paul’s body with his hands and mouth. So much to discover, now that he had more than that single chance to be with him. Everything that was and wasn’t new at all, there for both of them. Paul seemed braver now, too, steadier than he’d ever been. Far more sure of himself now that he  _ was _ himself again. That physical disconnect Gene had only ever noticed in passing was gone.

Paul tugged Gene back down with him to the mattress, both of them on their sides. Paul didn’t straddle him. He just held him there for a long time. Long enough that the cadences of their heartbeats almost seemed to match up; long enough that Gene could fully catch the scent of him, how it had changed. Still Aramis and the remnants of hairspray, but the musky scent of his sweat and body was markedly different, stronger and maybe a little earthier, almost, but plenty intoxicating. He breathed it in eagerly, letting himself get enveloped in Paul as readily as Paul was getting enveloped in him.

The only other sound was the dull tick of the clock on the nightstand, until even that was interrupted by the phone ringing. Gene just made a grunting noise, too comfortable to want to move. Paul, though, scooted a bit, murmuring quietly.

“It’s probably Ace. I told him I’d call him back.”

“Let the machine get it.”

“Nah.” Paul unraveled himself from Gene, reaching over him to grab the phone. The cord ended up draped along Gene’s chest. “Figure I’ve got plenty of good news for him. No tour delays, no summoning up demons or paying off witches…”

“And no putting you in a cute costume.” Gene paused, amused glint in his eyes, pushing the phone cord behind him.. “Well, not onstage, at least…”

“Not offstage, either.” Paul tapped him on the shoulder with the back of the receiver, His cheeks were going pink as he put the phone to his ear. “Hello? Ace? Yeah, I’m all fixed up. Yeah. No—shit, Ace, I just got back, I haven’t made sure everything’s…”

As the conversation trailed, Gene shifted, one arm around Paul’s waist. Paul smiled, and Gene felt Paul’s ankle catching his leg, tangling them back together, secure and warm in the shape of each other.


End file.
